MOODS.

The room faced west, but a dark cloud, streaked with red, stole away the peaceful charm of twilight. Shadows lurked in the corners like spies watching the man standing among them, silent and still, as if he were a shadow himself. He often glanced at the window with both a watchful and eager eye, yet saw nothing but a lush jungle of foliage barely disturbed by the heavy, sultry air filled with scents that seemed to weigh him down rather than refresh him. He listened intently, but all he heard was the noise of voices, the sound of footsteps, the ringing of bells, and the chaotic stir of a city that had lost its peace to the brightness of night. He waited for something; soon, it arrived. An unseen visitor, welcomed by longing from both his soul and body, as he reached out with open arms and parted lips to receive the silent greeting of the breeze that traveled across the wide Atlantic, bringing cheerful health to his homesick heart. He leaned far out; pushed aside the thick-leaved branches that were already rustling with a thankful stir, silenced the loud bird beating its bright-colored breast against its confines, and took deep breaths of the blessed wind that seemed to cool the fever in his veins and restore the energy he had lost.

A sudden light burst in behind him, filling the room with a glow that left no shadows. But he didn’t notice the change, nor did he hear the footsteps that interrupted the silence, or turn to greet the woman waiting for a lover's welcome. An indescribable air of luxurious life surrounded her, making the bright room a perfect backdrop for the figure standing there, with warm-colored fabrics fluttering in the breeze. She was a picture of the rich beauty of femininity at its peak, showing clear signs of being a polished individual shaped by the world, with grace flowing through every movement. Her features played their roles with the ease of second nature, and her clothing complemented her beauty. Her face was delicate and dark like fine bronze, with a low forehead framed by wavy hair, eyes filled with drowsy fire, and a passionate yet proud mouth that seemed made for both affection and authority.

A moment, she looked at the man in front of her, her expression quickly shifting through pride, resentment, and tenderness. Then, with a quiet step and a confident smile, she approached him and touched his hand, saying in a voice accustomed to the kind of language meant for lovers—

"Only a month engaged, and already so cold and gloomy, Adam!"

With a slight flinch, a look of mild disgust that was hidden yet apparent, Warwick responded like a sarcastic echo—

"Only a month engaged, and yet so affectionate and possessive, Ottila!"[9]

Unbothered by the action, unfazed by the glance, the white arm ensnared him, the stunning face came closer, and the charming voice softly inquired—

"Were you thinking of me when you turned with that longing look in your eye?"

"Nope."

"Was it a more beautiful or a more valuable friend than I?"

"Yep."

The black brows furrowed menacingly, the mouth hardened, the eyes sparkled, the arm tightened, and the plea turned into a command.

"What's the name, Adam?"

"Self-respect."

She chuckled softly to herself, and her changing expressions softened back to their usual tenderness as she looked up at that other face, so filled with an accusatory significance that she couldn’t grasp.

"I’ve waited two long hours; don’t you have a nicer greeting for me, love?"

"I have no truer one. Ottila, if a man has unwittingly committed a weak, unwise, or wicked act, what should he do when he realizes it?"

"Change your ways and make amends; do I really need to say that?"

"I've changed; will you help me turn my life around?"

"Confess, dear sinner; I will forgive you and grant you absolution for the past, no matter what it is."

"How much would you do for love for me?"

"Anything for you, Adam."

"Then give me back my freedom."

He stood up straight and reached out to her with a pleading gesture, filled with deep longing. Ottila recoiled as if his powerful words and actions pushed her away from him. The smile faded from her lips, a sense of impending dread filled her eyes, and she asked in disbelief—

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, now and forever!"

If he had raised his strong arm and hit her, it wouldn't have shocked her as much. For a moment, she stood there like someone staring at a gap opening up in front of her, one she couldn't cross. Then, as if disappointment was something she couldn't even imagine, she grabbed his pleading hands with a grip that made them go pale from her intense pressure and cried—

"No, I won’t! I’ve waited for your love for so long that I can’t let it go; you can’t take it from me!"

But as if the words had made the action irreversible, Warwick pushed her away, speaking with the serious tone of someone who worries they might be a traitor themselves.

"I can't take away something you never had. Just listen to me. No; I won't let any sweet talk distract me from my goal, no gentle words to silence the tough things I need to say, no more illusions to keep us from facing each other and ourselves."

"Adam, you're so cruel."

"Better to seem cruel than be untrustworthy; better to hurt your pride now than your heart later, when it's too late to realize that I married you without trust, respect, or love. For once in your life, you will hear the truth as clearly as words can express it. You will see me at my best as well as at my worst; you will know what I've learned to find in you; you will look back at the life we've had and forward into the life ahead of us, and if there's any honesty in you, I will get you to admit that you have led me into an unfair agreement. Unfair, because you[11] have deceived me about who you are, appealed to the worse, not the better instincts in me, and on such a foundation, there can be no lasting happiness."

"Go on, I’m listening." And aware that she couldn't suppress the clearly awakened desire, Ottila leaned in as if she was humbly prepared to hear everything for the sake of love.

A sneering smile spread across Warwick's face as he locked eyes with her and quickly continued, not taking a moment to pick pleasant words or sugarcoat the facts, but seeming to take satisfaction in speaking uncomfortable truths after all the sweet lies he had heard for so long. Yet beneath all the harshness shone the bravery of a principled person and the passion of a kind heart.

"I don't know much about these things and care even less; but I think few lovers experience a moment like this, because few have lived lives like ours, or know someone like we do. You, a woman who is stronger for better or worse than those around you, and I, a man untamed by any law except my own will. Strength is powerful, and we both have it; just as kings and queens leave their titles behind in their closets, let’s drop all our disguises and see each other as God sees us. This agreement needs to be broken; let me explain why. Three months ago, I came here to escape the chill of an Arctic winter from my blood and mind. I’ve done that, but it hasn't been good for me. In melting frost, I've ignited a fire; a fire that will burn all virtue out of me unless I put it out right now. I plan to do so because I refuse to keep the ten commandments in front of others while breaking them every hour in my heart."

He stopped for a moment, as if stronger words were on his lips than kindness would allow him to say, and when he spoke again, there was more disappointment than anger in his voice.[12]

"Ottila, until I met you, I loved no woman except my mother; I sought no wife, bought no mistress, and didn’t desire any friends, living a life as strict as a monk's, only asking for my freedom and my work. Couldn’t you let me keep my independence? Were there not enough men who wouldn’t find a spiritual bondage like this degrading? Would nothing but my submission fulfill your unstoppable hunger for power?"

"Did I look for you, Adam?"

"Yes! Not openly, I admit, your art was too refined for that; you avoided me so I would seek you to ask why. In meetings that seemed accidental, you used every trick a woman has, and there are many. You courted me like only you can win over hearts known to be hardest to reach. You made your company a relief in this emotional climate; you hid your true self and pretended to be what I respected most. You welcomed my beliefs with great hospitality; supported my ambitions with a kindness so warm that I thought it was real; shared my disdain for pretentiousness, and seemed like a genuine woman, eager to find the truth and do what's right; a perfect partner for any man looking for a teammate, not a plaything. It showed a lot of cleverness and determination to come up with and carry out the plan. It proved you knew the values you could imitate so well, otherwise, I would never have ended up where I am now."

"Your praise is deserved, even though it was given so harshly, Adam."

"There will be no more of this. If I'm harsh, it’s because I can’t stand dishonesty, and you have a cunning that’s made me feel self-loathing for the first time, and that feeling is bitter. Listen to me; this recollection is my justification; you need to hear the one and accept the other. You appeared to be sincere, but beneath the friendly demeanor you showed was the goal you’ve since admitted: to completely conquer the man who refused to let you rule solely through beauty or sexuality. You recognized the hidden charm that kept me here when my better judgment urged me to leave. You captivated my eye with your beauty, my ear with your music; stirred my curiosity, flattered my pride, and subdued my will with subtle compliments. Starting from a distance, you allowed all these influences to work until the moment came for the decisive move. Then you made a bold sacrifice of your innocence and admitted that you loved me."

Shame burned red on Ottila's dark cheek, and anger flared in her eyes as the wild spirit of the woman fought back against her will—

"It wasn't done in vain; because, as rebellious as you are, it brought you down, and with your own weapon, the plain truth."

He had truly said, "You'll see me at my best as well as my worst." She did, because by setting his pride aside, he displayed a courageous honesty that she could admire but could never replicate. In admitting his defeat, he found a victory.

"You think I'm going to deny this. I won't, but I fully admit that, despite all resistance, I was defeated by a woman. If it gives you satisfaction to hear this, to know it's hard for me to say and even harder to feel, then take that ungracious joy; I offer it to you as a gift. But remember, if I have failed, so have you. In that tumultuous heart of yours, there's no feeling stronger than what you have for me, and through it, you'll face the consequences of your actions. You were high on your success and quickly forgot the persona you had maintained so well. You thought love blinded me, but there was no love; and during this month, I've come to know you for who you really are. A woman of intense passions and weak morals; driven by ambition and focused on pleasure; skilled in deception and careless in disregarding the finer instincts of a talented but overlooked nature. Ottila, I have no faith in you, feel no respect for the passion you create, and owe no loyalty to the control you claim."

"You can't get rid of it; it’s too late."

It was a reckless challenge; she realized that as soon as it left her mouth, and would have done a lot to take it back. The serious look on Warwick's face turned into a fierce anger. His eye glinted like steel, but his voice lowered, and his hand clenched tightly as he said, with the demeanor of someone who can't hide but can manage sudden anger at a taunt that hurts even more due to past weaknesses—

"It’s never too late. If the priest were ready and I had promised to marry you within the hour, I would break that vow, and God would forgive me, because no one has the right to embrace temptation and ruin themselves with a lifetime of lies. You’ve chosen to make this a difficult fight for me; you’re neither a true friend nor a kind enemy. It doesn’t matter; I’ve fallen into a trap and must find my way out as best I can, because there’s already enough of this Devil's work in the world without us adding to it."

"You can't leave with honor, Adam."

"I can't stay with my honor intact. Don't push me too hard, Ottila. I'm not very patient, but I want to be fair. I admit my weakness; won't that be enough for you? Make a big deal out of your grievances as you see fit; seek sympathy from those who don’t understand my perspective; criticize, challenge, or mourn. I’ll take it all, and I’m willing to make any other sacrifice to make up for it, but I[15] will 'hold on to my integrity' and follow a higher law than the one your world recognizes, for both your sake and mine."

She watched him as he spoke, and to herself admitted a kind of slavery more complete than anything he had experienced, for with a pang she realized that she had truly fallen into the trap she had set for him, and in this man, who was brave enough to acknowledge his weakness and her strength, she had found a master. Was it too late to keep him? She knew that gentle appeals were useless, tears like water on a rock, and with the same skill that had once captivated him, she tried to recover from her mistake by maintaining a calmness that had more impact than prayers or protests. Warwick understood her well, had revealed her true self without any facades, leaving her with no defense but late honesty. She had the wisdom to recognize this, the cleverness to use it and regain the hint of the power she had lost. Leaving her beauty to work quietly, she fixed her gaze on him with eyes dimmed by unshed tears, and said in a sincere, humble voice—

"I also want to be fair. I won’t complain, challenge, or grieve, but I’ll leave my fate in your hands. I am everything you say I am, yet in your judgment, please remember to show mercy, and believe that at twenty-five, there’s still hope for a noble but neglected spirit, still time to fix the mistakes of my upbringing, education, and being an orphan. You say I have a bold will and a desire to conquer. Can’t I will to conquer myself and actually do it? Can I not learn to be the woman I've appeared to be? Love has accomplished greater miracles—can it not achieve this? I’ve longed to be a truer version of myself; I’ve seen my wasted talents, felt my potential for better things, and sought help from many places but found none until you arrived. Do you wonder why I tried to make it mine? Adam, you are a self-appointed missionary to the world’s[16] suffering; you can see beyond external poverty to the poverty of souls. In your eyes, I am a beggar; extend your hand and save me from myself."

Straight through the one vulnerable spot in the man's pride hit this plea to his compassion. Anger couldn’t deflect it, disdain couldn’t dull its impact, nor could hurt feelings diminish its strength; yet it missed the mark: because in Adam Warwick, justice was more powerful than mercy, logic than impulse, intellect than emotion. Experience was a teacher he trusted; he had assessed this woman and found her lacking; there was no truth in her; the persistent effort, the hard-won success that many found achievable was hardly possible for her, and a relationship between them would bring no lasting benefit to either. He understood this; he had made that decision in a calmer moment than now, and he would stick to that decision, immune to all external and internal challenges. More softly, but just as resolutely as before, he said—

"I extend my hand to offer you the same bitter drink of self-loathing that helped my own weak resolve. I can help, feel sorry for, and forgive you sincerely, but I can't marry you. The connection we have is based on physical attraction, not a deeper love. You lack the moral integrity that makes all gifts and qualities support the virtues that make being a woman something to respect as well as love. I can give up youth, beauty, and material advantages, but I must respect above all else the woman I marry and feel a love that lifts me by awakening the noblest and most manly parts of me. With you, I would either become a tyrant or a submissive. I refuse to be either and would rather live alone forever than recklessly jeopardize the freedom I've maintained for so long or let a momentary desire impact the value of my future years." [17]

Bent and broken by the relentless accusations of what felt like a conscience in human form, Ottila had dropped down before him with a surrender that was as natural to her as the unyielding will that still refused to give up hope, even in despair.

"Go," she said, "I don't deserve to be saved. But it's really hard, so hard, to let go of the one thing that could actually save me, the one genuine love in my life."

Warwick had anticipated a heated reaction to his decision; this entire situation affected him deeply, for in the final words of her brief sorrow, he recognized the truth and yearned to respond. He paused, searching for the right thing to do. Ottila, her face hidden, watched as she cried, hoping for a sign of forgiveness. In silence, the two—like a modern-day Samson and Delilah—fought the age-old battle that has existed since the strong locks were cut and the temple fell; a struggle that fills the world with incomplete couples and the long list of problems that arise from marriages based on impulse rather than principle. As always, the most generous one ended up losing. The silence spoke volumes for Ottila, and when Warwick finally spoke, it was to say impulsively—

"You’re right! It’s tough that when two people make a mistake, only one should pay the price. I should have been smart enough to recognize the danger and brave enough to avoid it. I wasn’t, and I owe you something for the hurt my foolishness caused you. I’m offering you the biggest, but hardest, sacrifice I can make. You say love can do wonders, and that yours is the truest love of your life; prove it. In three months, you won me over; can you win over yourself in twelve?"

"Challenge me!"[18]

"I will. Nature takes a year for her harvests; I’ll give you the same for yours. If you will put half the energy and care into this work that you put into that other one—if you will genuinely strive to cherish all that is feminine and admirable in yourself, and through the desire for someone else's respect earn your own—then I, too, will try to make myself a better partner for any woman, and keep our promise unbroken for a year. Can I do more?"

"I didn't think I could ask for that much! I don't deserve it, but I will. Just love me, Adam, and let me find my salvation through you."

Flushed and shaking with excitement, she stood up, confident that she had successfully gotten through the trial, but realized that a new challenge had started for her. Warwick extended his hand.

"Goodbye, then."

"Leaving? Surely you will stay and help me through my long waiting period?"

"No; if what you want is truly valuable, you can figure it out on your own. We'll just get in each other's way, and the work will turn out poorly."

"Where are you going? Not far, Adam."

"Straight to the North. This lavish lifestyle drains me; the disease of slavery hangs in the air and affects me; I need to rebuild myself and rediscover the man I used to be."

"When do you need to leave? Not just yet."

"Right away."

"Will I hear from you?"

"Not until I arrive."

"But I will need encouragement; I will become hungry for a word, a thought from you. A year is a long time to wait and work alone." [19]

She pleaded eloquently with her voice, eyes, and soft lips, but Warwick didn’t give in.

"If the test is going to be done at all, it has to be done fairly. We need to step back completely and see what redeeming qualities can be found in self-discipline and helping ourselves."

"You'll forget me, Adam. Some woman with a more peaceful heart than mine will show you how to love the way you want to love, and when I'm done, it will all have been for nothing."

"Never in vain if it's done well, since that work rewards itself. Don’t worry; one lesson like this will stick with you for life. Put your heart into it, and I’ll keep my promise until the year is over."

"And then, what now?"

"If I see in you the progress we both want, if this connection stands the test of time and distance, and we find any reason for a lasting relationship, then, Ottila, I will marry you."

"But if in the meantime that cooler, calmer woman comes to you, what then?"

"Then I'm not marrying you."

"Ah, your promise is just a man's word, given to be broken. I don't trust you."

"I think you might have. There won’t be time for more nonsense; I need to make up for the many days I've wasted—though they aren't wasted if I've learned this lesson well. Rest assured; it's impossible for me to love."

"You believed that three months ago, and yet you’re a lover now."

Ottila smiled a triumphant smile, and Warwick recognized his own proven mistakes with a proud blush and a sincere apology.

"Then it's settled: if I fall in love again, I have to stay quiet until the year is over and you release me from my promise. Does that work for you?"[20]

"It has to. But you'll still come, no matter what happens to you? Promise me that."

"I swear it."

"Leaving already? Oh, hang on a bit!"

"When you have a responsibility, take care of it right away; waiting can be risky. Good night."

"Please give me something to remember you by. I have nothing, because you're not a giving lover."

"You're so generous, Ottila. I've given you a year of freedom, a precious gift from someone who values it more than anything. Now I'm adding this."

He pulled her close, kissed her bright red lips, and looked down at her with a gaze that made his masculine face appear as vulnerable as any woman's, allowing her to lean against him, blissful in the hope given at such a high price. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the gentle whisper of the wind. For a moment, Warwick's strict life felt demanding; love seemed sweet, and submission felt possible; because in all the world, she was the only woman who held onto him, and it was beautiful to love and be loved after years of loneliness. A deep sigh of longing and regret escaped him, and at that sound, a sly smile crept onto Ottila's lips as she whispered, her soft cheek against his own—

"Will you stay, love?"

"I'm not staying!"

And like someone who shouts loudly inside, "Get back!" he broke free.

"Adam, come back to me! Please come back!"

He glanced back, saw the beautiful woman in the warm light, heard her call of love and desire, knew the life of comfort that awaited him, but resolutely stepped into the night, only responding—

"In a year."

"Come on, Sylvia, it's nine o'clock! Lazybones, aren’t you planning to get up today?" said Miss Yule, bursting into her sister's room with the energetic look of someone who saw sleep as a necessary hassle to be dealt with and moved past as quickly as possible.

"No, why should I?" Sylvia turned her face away from the bright light pouring into the room as Prue pushed aside the curtains and threw open the window.

"Why should you? That’s quite a question, unless you're sick; I was worried you’d be feeling the effects of that long argument yesterday, and my predictions usually turn out to be right."

"I’m not suffering from anything at all, and your prediction is wrong this time; I’m just tired of everyone and everything, and I don’t see anything worth getting up for, so I’ll just stay here until I do. Please lower the curtain and leave me alone."

Prue had lowered her voice to that ominous tone that always bugs nervous people, whether they're sick or healthy, and Sylvia threw her arm over her eyes with an annoyed gesture as she spoke sharply.

"Nothing worth getting up for," shouted Prue, like an annoying echo. "Come on, there are a hundred fun things to do if you’d just think about it. Now[22] don’t be gloomy and waste this beautiful day. Get up and give my suggestion a try; have a good breakfast, read the news, and then work in your garden before it gets too hot; that’s good exercise and you’ve really been neglecting it lately."

"I don't want any breakfast; I can't stand newspapers, they're just full of lies; I'm fed up with the garden because nothing is going right this year; and I really dislike exercising just because it's good for you. No, I'm not getting up for that."

"Then stay at home and draw, read, or practice. Sit with Mark in the studio; give Miss Hemming instructions about your summer clothes, or go into town for your hat. There's a matinee, give that a try; or visit friends, since you owe at least fifty. I'm sure there's plenty of things to do and fun to be had for anyone who's reasonable."

Prue looked victorious, but Sylvia wasn't a "reasonable person," and continued in her previously gloomy and sulky manner.

"I'm tired of drawing; my head is a mess of other people's ideas already, and Herr Pedalsturm has messed up the piano. Mark always makes a model of me when I visit him, and I don't like seeing my eyes, arms, or hair in all his paintings. Miss Hemming's gossip is worse than fussing over new things I don't need. Bonnets are my nightmare, and matinées are exhausting because people just whisper and flirt until the music is ruined. Making social calls is the worst of all; what joy or benefit is there in hopping from place to place to tell the same polite lies again and again, while listening to gossip that makes you either pity or hate your neighbors? I’m not getting up for any of this."

Prue leaned on the bedpost, deep in thought with an anxious[23] expression until a glimmer of hope appeared, prompting her to exclaim—

"Mark and I are going to see Geoffrey Moor this morning, just back from Switzerland, where his poor sister passed away, you know. You really should come with us to welcome him. Even though you can hardly remember him since he’s been away for so long, it's a nice gesture since he's part of the family. The drive will do you good, Geoffrey will be happy to see you, it’s a beautiful old place, and since you’ve never seen the inside of the house, you can't say you're tired of it yet."

"Yes, I can, because it will never feel the same as it used to, and I can no longer go where I want now that having a master around ruins its freedom and solitude for me. I don’t know him, and I’m not interested, even though I’ve heard his name so often. New people always let me down, especially if I’ve been hearing them praised my whole life. I won’t get up for any Geoffrey Moor, so that plan won’t work."

Sylvia couldn't help but smile at her sister's defeat, but Prue leaned on her final option in moments like this. With a resolute motion, she reached into a deep pocket and pulled out a random assortment of items, choosing a small vial and offering it to Sylvia with a look and tone that was both somewhat pleading and somewhat commanding.

"I'll let you be if you just take some chamomile. It's really calming, and instead of exhausting yourself with all sorts of worries, you'll fall into a nice sleep and be ready to get up by noon like a normal person. Please take it, darling; just four little candies, and I'll be happy."

Sylvia took the bottle with a calm look, but in the next moment it was hurled out the window, shattering on the path below, while she laughed like the playful person she was—

"I've accepted it the only way I ever will, and the sparrows can test its calming effects on me; so just be content."

"Alright. I’ll call Dr. Baum, because I really believe you’re going to get sick. I won’t say anything else, but I’ll do what I think is right, because trying to reason with you in one of these stubborn moods is pointless."

As Prue walked away, Sylvia frowned and called out to her—

"Save yourself the hassle, because Dr. Baum will stick with the chamomilla if you bring him here. What does he know about health, a fat German, sipping lager beer and talking about sauerkraut? Bring me some real sugar plums and I'll accept them; but arsenic, mercury, and nightshade aren't for me."

"Would you be offended if I asked whether your breakfast should be brought up or if it should be kept waiting until you decide to come down?"

Prue appeared completely composed, but Sylvia understood that she was hurting, and with one of her typical spontaneous urges, the frown turned into a smile as she pulled her sister close and kissed her affectionately.

"Dear old soul, I’ll be alright eventually, but right now I’m tired and irritable, so please let me be and drift off into a better mood. All I want is some peace, a drink of water, and a kiss."

Prue felt better immediately, and after busily fussing for a few minutes, she gave her sister everything she asked for and left to tend to the countless little things that brought her joy. As the door shut, Sylvia let out a long sigh of relief, and with her arms folded under her head, she drifted off into a dreamland, where boredom doesn’t exist.

All through the long summer mornings, she lay wrapped up in her dreams, both sleeping and waking, completely unaware of the world around her, until her brother played the Wedding March outside her door on his way to lunch. The urge to retaliate against the sudden collapse of her beautiful daydreams stirred Sylvia and pushed her to confront Mark. But before she could say anything, Prue started talking non-stop, because the kind-hearted woman had a habit of mixing news, gossip, personal opinions, and public matters into a casual jumble that was often as challenging to listen to as it was amusing for her audience.

"Sylvia, we had a lovely call, and Geoffrey sends his love to you. I invited him over for dinner, and we'll eat at six, so my dad can join us. I need to head into town first because there are a ton of things that need my attention. You can't just wear a round hat and lawn jackets without any style all summer long. I need to pick up some things for dinner—and I have to get the carpet. Geoffrey had such a beautiful one in the library! Then I need to check if poor Mrs. Beck is okay after her leg surgery, see if Freddy Lennox has passed away, and order the mosquito nets. So, don’t spend the whole afternoon reading, and be ready to welcome anyone who might drop by if I happen to be late."

The need to get rid of a held-back response created a pause, and Sylvia took the chance to casually ask, hoping to get her brother talking about his favorite subject —

"How did you discover your saint, Mark?"

"The same cheerful spirit as always, even though he's been through enough to make him seem older and more serious than his years. He's exactly what we need in our neighborhood, especially in our home, because we can be a pretty gloomy bunch at times, and he'll do us all a lot of good."

"What’s going to happen to me, with a religious, boring, perfect person constantly lurking around the house and nagging me about my mistakes!" shouted Sylvia.

"Don't worry about it; he probably won't pay much attention to you; and it's not for a lazy, quirky little insect to mock a man she doesn't know and couldn't appreciate even if she did," was Mark's arrogant response.

"I really liked the look of the saint, though," said Sylvia, with a mischievous smirk, as she started her lunch.

"Wow, where did you see him?" her brother exclaimed.

"I went over there yesterday to take a last run in the overgrown garden before he arrived. I knew he was supposed to come, but I didn't realize he was already there; and when I saw the house open, I snuck in and looked around wherever I wanted. You're right, Prue; it's a beautiful old place."

"Now I know you did something really inappropriate and not very ladylike. Please, tell me what it is. I’m begging you to put me out of my suspense."

Prue's troubled expression and Mark's shock had an uplifting effect on Sylvia, who carried on with a sense of quiet satisfaction—

"I wandered around, having a great time, until I found myself in the library. I started exploring, because it was such a lovely place, and I felt as happy as only those who love books do, feeling their impact in the quiet of a room where they are the most beautiful decorations."

"I hope Moor walked in and found you trespassing."

"No, I went out and found him playing. After I'd[27] stayed as long as I could, I borrowed a really interesting old book—

"Sylvia! Did you really take one without asking?" cried Prue, looking almost as alarmed as if she had stolen the spoons.

"Yeah; why not? I can apologize nicely, and it’ll pave the way for more. I plan to go through that library for the next six months."

"But it was such a freedom—so rude, so—oh dear, dear; and he cared for his books as if they were his children! Well, I’m done with it and ready for anything now!"

Mark enjoyed Sylvia's pranks too much to scold her, so he just laughed while one sister complained and the other calmly continued—

"When I had tucked the book into my pocket, Prue, I walked into the garden. But before I could pick a single flower, I heard little Tilly laughing behind the hedge and some strange voice talking to her. So I climbed onto a roller to see, and nearly fell off again; because there was a man lying on the grass, with the gardener's kids having a blast over him. Will was picking his pockets, and Tilly was munching on strawberries from his hat, often shoving one into the mouth of her tall neighbor, who always smiled when the little hand reached out for his lips. You should have seen the lovely scene, Mark."

"Did he see the cool picture on your side of the wall?"

"No, I was just thinking about how friendly his eyes were, listening to his nice conversation with the little kids, and watching how they snuggled up to him like he was one of them, when Tilly looked up and shouted, 'I see Silver!' So I took off[28], expecting them all to come running after me. But no one chased me, and instead of hearing the 'stop thief' I thought I’d get, I only heard a laugh."

"If I had the time, I would convince you how inappropriate such reckless actions are; since I don't, I can only urge you to never do that again on Geoffrey's property," Prue said, standing up as the carriage came around.

"I can definitely promise that," replied Sylvia, shaking her head sadly as she leaned out the window until her brother and sister left.

At the scheduled time, Moor walked into Mr. Yule's warmly welcoming home, but no one was there to greet him, and the house was as quiet as if it were uninhabited. He figured out why, having seen Prue and Mark heading down a few hours earlier, and thinking to himself, "The boat is late," he didn't disturb anyone but wandered into the living rooms to have a look around. As someone who rarely feels bored, he entertained himself by noticing what changes had been made during his absence. His tour of the rooms was brief, as he eventually stopped at an open window, wearing an expression that mixed wonder and amusement.

A pile of cushions, taken from the chair and sofa, lay in front of the large window, looking very much like a recently abandoned nest. A warm-colored picture taken from the wall rested in a beam of sunlight; a partially cleared plate of fruit was on a small table, and next to it, with a red stain on its cover, was the stolen book. When he saw this, the Moor frowned, grabbed his defiled treasure, and put it in his pocket. But after taking another look at the signs of what clearly had been a solitary celebration that he could relate to, he softened, put the book back down, and, moving aside the curtain blowing in the wind, looked out into the garden, drawn there by the sound of a spade.

A young guy was working nearby, and curious about the new resident in the house, the overlooked guest waited to catch a glimpse of the unfamiliar face. A slender boy in a foreign-looking gray linen shirt; a white collar hung over a ribbon at his throat, sturdy half boots covered his neat feet, and a wide-brimmed hat flopped low on his forehead. Whistling softly, he energetically dug; after making a hole, he planted a shrub, filled in the dirt, packed it down carefully, and then stepped back to admire his work. But something wasn't right, something had been overlooked, because suddenly the shrub popped up, and grabbing a wheelbarrow nearby, the boy rushed around the corner and out of sight. Moor smiled at his eagerness and waited for him to return with interest, suspecting that this was some sort of protégé of Mark's who was working as both a model and a gardener’s assistant.

Up the path came the boy, head down and moving steadily, pushing a wheelbarrow full of richer soil topped with a watering can. Without stopping to catch his breath, he got back to work, digging the hole bigger, tossing in the dirt, pouring in the water, resetting the plant, and after the last stamp and pat were done, he did a little dance of victory around it. At the end of his dance, he took off his hat and started fanning his sweaty face. This made the observer jump and look again, thinking, as he recognized the hardworking boy with a smile, "What a strange thing this is! lurking around unnoticed and taking my books without me knowing; daydreaming half the time and pretending the other half. What will happen next?[30] Let's watch without being seen, so the boy doesn't get shy and run away before the fun is over!"

Holding the curtain between the window and himself, Moor peeked through the semi-transparent screen, enjoying the little scene immensely. Sylvia fanned herself and took a few minutes to rest, then moved among the flowers, often stopping to break off a dead leaf, brush away some harmful insect, or lift a struggling plant into the light; she moved among them as if she were one of them, aware of their gentle needs. If she had seemed strong and sturdy like a boy before, now she was delicately graceful like a woman, humming here and there like any happy-hearted bee.

"Curious kid!" thought Moor, watching the sunlight sparkle on her bare head and listening to the tune she left half sung. "I really want to step out and see how she’ll react to me. Definitely not like any other girl, I bet."

But before he could carry out his plan, the sound of a carriage was heard on the avenue. Sylvia stopped for a moment, her head held high like a startled doe, then turned and ran away, dropping flowers as she went. Mr. Yule, along with his son and daughter, hurried in with greetings, explanations, and apologies, and soon the house was filled with a lively buzz. Feet moved up and down the stairs, voices echoed through the rooms, delicious smells wafted up from downstairs, and doors swung in the breeze, as if the spell was broken and the sleeping house had come to life with a word.

Prue quickly got ready and stressed out the cook to the point of almost exploding, while Mark and his dad focused on their guest. Just as dinner was announced, Sylvia walked in, looking as relaxed and composed as if wheelbarrows were just a fantasy and linen suits were a foreign concept. Moor was greeted with a subtle handshake, a serious nod, and a look that seemed to say, "Hold on, I don’t trust anyone easily."

All through dinner, even though she sat as quietly as a well-behaved child, she looked and listened with an expression of sharp intelligence that kids don’t usually have, and sometimes smiled to herself, as if she saw or heard something that delighted and intrigued her. When they got up from the table, she followed Prue upstairs, completely forgetting about the mess left in the drawing-room. The men took over before either sister came back, and Mark's frustration spilled over into a long rant about oddities in general and Sylvia in particular; meanwhile, his father and friend relaxed in the uncomfortable chairs, finding the whole scene amusingly unusual. Prue showed up right in the middle of the laughter, and after discovering more mistakes upstairs, her patience ran thin, and her regrets weren't held back even in front of her old friend Moor.

"Something has to be done about that kid, Dad, because she’s completely out of my control. When I try to get her to study, she writes poetry instead of doing her assignments, draws funny pictures instead of sketching properly, and confuses her music teacher by asking about Beethoven and Mendelssohn, as if they were personal pals of his. If I ask her to get some exercise, she rides around the Island like a wild woman, digs in the garden like it’s her job, or goes wading in the bay until I’m worried the tide will take her out to sea. She has no sense of moderation and makes herself sick, and when I give her medicine, she throws it out the window and threatens to send that good doctor, Dr. Baum, after it. But she definitely needs something to help her, because she’s either bursting with energy or so gloomy it’s heartbreaking."

"What have you done with the little black sheep of my flock—please tell me you haven't banished her?" said Mr. Yule, calmly ignoring all complaints.

"She's in the garden, taking care of some of her annoying pets, I assume. If you're heading out there to smoke, could you please ask her to come in, Mark? I need her."

As Mr. Yule clearly wanted his after-dinner nap, and Mark was looking forward to his cigar, Moor followed his friend, and they went through the window into the garden, now beautiful with the soft light of the summer sunset.

"You should know that this quirky little sister of mine still holds on to some of her childish beliefs and joys despite Prue's lectures and my teasing," Mark began, after taking a refreshing breath or two. "She is filled with love and goodwill, but since she's either too shy or too proud to show it to people, she channels it into helping the needy creatures of earth, air, and water with the most delightful kindness. Her dependents are neither beautiful nor particularly interesting, and she isn't romantically attached to them; but the uglier and more miserable the creature, the more devoted she becomes. Just look at her now; most young women would freak out over any one of those pets of hers."

Moor looked and thought the group was very charming, even though a plump toad sat at Sylvia's feet, a chubby caterpillar was crawling up her sleeve, a blind bird chirped on her shoulder, bees buzzed harmlessly around her head as if they mistook her for a flower, and in her hand, a little field mouse was letting its short life slip away. Any kind-hearted girl might have stood surrounded by such helpless things that pity had made lovable, but few would have looked at them with the expression Sylvia had. Her figure, posture, and actions were so childlike in their innocent oblivion that the contrast was even more striking compared to the sweet thoughtfulness that gave her face a uniquely appealing charm of emerging womanhood. Moor spoke before Mark could finish his smoke.

"This is a big improvement over the room filled with lapdogs, knitting, and novels, Miss Sylvia. Can I ask if you feel no dislike for some of your patients, or is your kindness strong enough to see beauty in all of them?"

"I don’t like many people, but I dislike very few animals. No matter how ugly they might be, I feel sorry for them, and whatever I feel sorry for, I always end up loving. It might seem silly, but I think it’s good for me; and until I’m wise enough to help my fellow humans, I try to do my part for these simpler beings and find that they are both thankful and loving."

There was something really charming about the way the girl spoke, gently cradling the little creature in her hand almost as if it were a child. It revealed another side of her complex personality to the newcomer; and while Sylvia shared the stories of her pets at his request, he was absorbing that deeper story that every genuine person expresses on their face for perceptive eyes to see and appreciate. As she paused, the little mouse lay still in her soft hand; and even though they exchanged smiles, both young men felt like kids again as they helped her dig a grave among the pansies, embracing the beauty of compassion, even though she showed it to them in such a simple way.

Then Mark delivered his message, and Sylvia left[34] to get Prue's lecture, appearing outwardly calm, but her mind was so far away that the words of wisdom flew past her like the wind.

"Come and join us for our evening walk while Mark keeps Mr. Moor busy in the studio and Prue gets ready for another speech," said Sylvia, as her father woke up. She took his arm, and they walked along the spacious porch that wrapped around the entire house.

"Will Dad do me a little favor?"

"That's all he lives for, dear."

"Then his life is a very successful one," the girl said, placing her other hand over the one already resting on his arm. Mr. Yule shook his head with a sigh of regret but asked kindly—

"What should I do for my little girl?"

"Forbid Mark from carrying out the scheme he’s threatening me with. He claims he’ll bring every gentleman he knows (and that’s quite a lot) to the house and make it so enjoyable that they'll keep coming back; he believes I need some fun, and nothing would be more entertaining than having a lover or two. Please tell him not to do it, as I’m not looking for any lovers right now."

"Why not?" her father asked, clearly amused by her late-night secrets.

"I'm afraid. Love is so harsh for some people, and I feel like it would be for me too because I'm always feeling extremes and constantly messing up while trying to do the right thing. Love confuses the smartest people, and I know it would make me totally blind or crazy; so I'd rather avoid it for a long, long time."

"Then Mark won’t be allowed to bring a single specimen. I really prefer to keep you just the way you are. And[35] yet you might be happier doing what others do; give it a try, if you want, my dear."

"But I can't do what everyone else does; I've tried, and failed. Last winter, when Prue made me get out and socialize, even though people probably thought I was a silly little thing, sulking in corners, I was actually having fun in my own way and making discoveries that have been really useful since then. I know I'm quirky and hard to please, and I'm sure the problem lies with me, but I was let down by almost everyone I met, even though I went into what Prue calls 'our best society.' The girls seemed all the same; they all said, did, thought, and wore pretty much the same things, and knowing one was just like knowing a dozen. Jessie Hope was the only one I really liked, and she's so pretty, she seems made to be looked at and loved."

"How did you find the young men, Sylvia?"

"Even worse; because, although they were lively with each other, they never thought it was worth their time to engage us in any conversation, which was much like the champagne and ice cream they served us—sparkling, sweet, and insubstantial. Most of them had that superior attitude they put on in front of women, an attitude that clearly communicates, 'I may talk to you or I may not.' That’s really frustrating for those of us who care about them as much as we care about grasshoppers, and I often wished I could deflate their ego by sharing some of the comments made about them by the charming young women who seemed ready to say politely, 'Yes, thank you.'"

"Don't get too worked up, my dear; it's all quite sad and funny, but we have to endure until the world figures things out. There are often some great young people among the 'grasshoppers,' and if you took the time to look, you might find a[36] nice friend here and there," said Mr. Yule, leaning a bit toward his son's perspective on the situation.

"No, I can't even bring that up without being laughed at; as soon as I say the word 'friendship,' people nod knowingly and look like they're saying, 'Oh, yes, everyone knows what that's really worth.' I'd really like to have a friend, Dad; someone outside of home, because he'd be something fresh; a guy (old or young, I don’t mind) since men go where they want, see things firsthand, and have more experiences to share if they want to. I want someone who's simple, wise, and fun to be around; and I think I’d be a really grateful friend if someone like that were kind enough to like me."

"I believe you would, and maybe if you try to be more like others, you'll make friends like they do and find happiness, Sylvia."

"I can't be like everyone else, and their friendships just don't work for me. I'm not trying to be different; I just want to be calm and happy, but I can't seem to do that. When I do what Prue calls crazy things, it's not because I'm careless or lazy, but because I'm trying to be good and find happiness. The old ways don't work, so I try new ones, hoping they'll help; but they don't, and I keep searching for happiness, always coming up empty, and sometimes I feel like I'm just meant to disappoint."

"Maybe love will bring the happiness, my dear?"

"I'm afraid not; but regardless, I will never run around looking for a boyfriend like half my friends do. When the right one comes along, I'll recognize him, love him instantly, and hold on to him forever, no matter what happens. Until then, I want a friend, and I'll find one if I can. Don't you think there can be genuine and uncomplicated friendships between men and women without diving into this endless ocean of love?"

Mr. Yule was chuckling softly in the darkness, but he steadied himself to respond seriously—

"Yes, some of the most beautiful and well-known friendships have been like that, and I don’t see why it can’t happen again. Look around, Sylvia, and make yourself happy; whether you find a friend or a lover, remember that the old Papa is always here, ready to do his best for you in both ways."

Sylvia's hand moved to her father's shoulder, and her voice was filled with daughterly love as she said—

"I won't have any lover other than 'the old Papa' for quite some time. But I will keep my eyes open, and if I'm lucky enough to find someone and good enough to hold onto the person I want, I will be very happy; because, Dad, I really feel like I need a friend."

Here Mark called his sister in to sing for them, a request that would have been declined if not for a promise she made to Prue to do her best as a way to make up for past mischief. As she walked in, she sat down and gave Moor another surprise, as from her delicate throat came a voice with such power and emotion that it turned the simple ballad she was singing into a tragedy.

"Why did you pick that sad song about love, despair, and death? It really breaks your heart to listen to it," said Prue, briefly distracted as she considered her morning shopping.

"It popped into my head, so I sang it. Now I’ll try another, because I want to make you happy—if I can." And she burst out again with a lighthearted melody as cheerful as if a lark had confused moonlight for dawn and flew up, singing all the way. Both her voice and the song were so joyful and beautiful that they made the listeners sigh with pleasure, a sharp thrill of delight, and seemed to give the singer an unexpected charm. When she finished, Sylvia turned around, and seeing the satisfaction on their guest's face, stopped him from putting it into words by saying, in her straightforward way—

"Forget the compliments. I know my voice is good, and you can thank nature for that; it's well trained, so give credit to Herr Pedalsturm; and the fact that you’ve heard it at all is due to my wish to make up for certain mistakes from yesterday and today, since I usually don’t sing in front of strangers."

"Let me express my sincere gratitude to Nature, Pedalsturm, and Penitence, and I also hope that in time I will be seen, not as a stranger, but as a neighbor and a friend."

Something in the soft emphasis of the last word resonated pleasantly with the girl, seeming to satisfy an unexpressed desire. She looked up at him with an intense gaze, appeared to find some 'reassurance in his eyes,' and as a smile spread across her face, she extended her hand as if following a sudden urge, and said, half to him, half to herself—

"I think I've already found the friend."

Sylvia was sitting in the sunshine, sewing, with a look on her face that was a mix of joy and sadness as she reflected on her recently ended girlhood and the womanhood that was just starting. On that midsummer day, she was eighteen. Voices pulled her out of her thoughts, and when she looked up, she saw her brother coming toward her with two friends: their neighbor Geoffrey Moor and his guest Adam Warwick. Her first instinct was to drop her work and run to greet them, but her second was to remember her newfound dignity and stay seated, waiting for them with calm poise, completely unaware that her white dress among the vines made the quiet summer scene even more beautiful.

They arrived feeling cheerful and lively after a quick row across the bay, and Sylvia greeted them with a face that expressed a warmer welcome than her words did. She warmly welcomed the neighbor, politely acknowledged the stranger, and started to collect her work as they settled into the bamboo chairs spread out across the spacious porch.

"You don't have to worry," said Mark, "we're just stopping here on the way to the studio. Do you know where I can find my backpack? After one of Prue's packing jobs, I'm afraid only a divining rod will help me find it."[40]

"I know where it is. Are you leaving again so soon, Mark?"

"Just a two-day trip up the river with my friends. Nope, Sylvia, that's not going to happen."

"I didn't say anything."

"Not in words, but you gave me a whole bunch of 'Can I go?' looks, and I replied to them. No girl but you would even think of something like that; you dislike picnics, and since this one will be long and tough, can't you see how ridiculous it would be for you to attempt it?"

"I don’t really see it, Mark, because this wouldn’t just be an ordinary picnic; it would feel like a little romance to me, and I’d rather have that than any birthday gift you could give me. We used to have such great times together before we grew up, and I don’t like being so distant now. But if it’s not the best idea, I’m sorry I even wished for it."

Sylvia tried to hide her disappointment and desire as she spoke, though a deep longing had taken hold of her when she heard about a planned event that was so in line with her interests. But there was an unspoken accusation in her last words, a silent plea in her wistful eyes as they gazed across the sparkling bay to the green hills beyond. Mark was both fond of and proud of his young sister, who, while he was studying art abroad, had explored nature at home, transforming from a mischievous but charming child into a very attractive girl. He remembered her dedication to him, his recent neglect of her, and he wanted to make amends. With raised eyebrows and curious glances, he looked from one friend to another. Moor nodded and smiled, Warwick nodded and sighed quietly, and after gauging the mood of the gathering in a new way, Mark suddenly announced[41]—

"You can go if you want, Sylvia."

"What!" her sister exclaimed, jumping up with her usual impulsiveness, sending her basket tumbling down the steps and placing Prue's nightcap frills on her sleeping cat. "Are you serious, Mark? Wouldn't it ruin your fun, Mr. Moor? Wouldn't I just be a bother, Mr. Warwick? Be honest with me, because if I can go, I'll be happier than I can even say."

The guys smiled at her enthusiasm, but when they saw the changed expression on her face, each of them felt already rewarded for any loss of freedom they might face in the future, and they all agreed. Once they agreed, Sylvia felt like dancing around them and expressing her thanks out loud, but she held back and instead beamed at them with a silent gratitude that was nice to see. After giving a hasty consent, Mark thought it would be a good idea to present a few challenges to make it more meaningful and test his sister's character.

"Don't float up into the sky like a helium balloon, kid, but pay attention to the conditions you have to meet, because if you can't pull off three miracles, it’s game over for you. First, you need the approval of the higher powers, because your dad will be worried about all kinds of risks—you're quite the unusual person—and Prue will be shocked since adventures like this aren't really in style for young women."

"Let’s move on to the next point," said Sylvia, who had been in charge of the house since she was born and wasn’t worried about succeeding with either her father or sister.

"Secondly, you need to pack yourself up as tightly as possible; although you lovely ladies look great on land, you're not exactly easy to transport by water. While cambric dresses and French slippers are very stylish and appealing right now, they have to be sacrificed for the harsh realities of the situation. You’ll have to dress dowdily in some short, practical, drab outfit that will test the nerves of everyone who sees you and will clearly show that women were never intended for such trips."

"Wait five minutes and I'll confidently prove you wrong," Sylvia replied as she dashed into the house.

Her five minutes felt more like fifteen, as she was rifling through her wardrobe to achieve her goal and impress her brother, whose artistic opinions she considered, which ultimately helped her out. Quickly putting on a gray dress with a stylish jacket to match, she hiked up the skirt over a green one that reached a practical length, revealing boots that were sturdy and reliable. She slung a nicely designed pouch across her shoulder with a wide ribbon, and adorned her hat in a pilgrim fashion with a seashell. Then, grabbing her brother's hiking pole, she carefully descended and stood in the doorway, presenting a tiny figure dressed in gray and green, like the earth she was about to explore, and a face that blushed, smiled, and glimmered as she asked sweetly—

"Please, Mark, do I look good enough to go?"

He turned around and looked on with approval, forgetting the cause and effect until Warwick started laughing like a cheerful bass viol, and Moor joined him, saying—

"Come on, Mark, admit that you’ve been beaten, and let’s turn our regular trip into a fun adventure, with an energetic lady to keep us knights and gentlemen wherever we go."

"I won't say anything else; just keep this in mind, Sylvia, if you end up getting burned, drowned, or swept away, it’s not my fault, and I’ll have the satisfaction of saying, 'See, I told you so.'"

"That satisfaction will be mine when I come home safe and sound," replied Sylvia, calmly. "Now for the final condition."

Warwick watched with curiosity as he moved his gaze from the sister to the brother; as a solitary man, family moments and relationships held a fresh appeal for him.

"Thirdly, you shouldn't bring a ton of luggage, like cloaks, pillows, silver forks, or a dozen napkins. You need to live like we do, sleeping in hammocks, barns, or on the ground, without complaining about bats or missing mosquito nets; eating whenever, wherever, and whatever is easiest, and dealing with all kinds of weather, no matter how you look, your hair, or how tired you are. If you can agree to all this, be here packed and ready to leave at six o'clock tomorrow morning."

After that cheerful vision of the joys ahead, Mark marched off to his studio, bringing his friends along.

Sylvia had accomplished three miracles, and at 5:30 A.M. she was found sitting on the porch, her hammock rolled up at her feet like a twisted bundle, her hat securely tied on, her bag packed, and her walking stick in hand. "Just waiting to be called," she said as her brother walked by, running late and yawning like usual. As the clock struck six, the carriage arrived, and Moor and Warwick came up the driveway dressed in nautical outfits. A joyful noise filled the air with voices, slamming doors, hurried footsteps, and bursts of laughter; everyone was in a festive mood, and the morning felt perfect for having fun.

Mr. Yule looked at the travelers with a friendly expression, like the clear summer sky above; Prue was running back and forth, pouring out a stream of advice, warnings, and predictions; men and women gathered on the lawn or leaned out of upper windows; and even old Hecate, the cat, was seen chasing imaginary rats and mice in the grass, her yellow eyes full of excitement. "All in," was finally announced, and as the carriage rolled away, its passengers glanced at each other with happy faces, pleased that their journey had started off so well.

A mile or so up the river, the large, freshly painted boat was waiting for them. They boarded quickly since the cargo was soon packed into lockers and under seats. Sylvia took her spot in the front; Mark, as the captain, took the wheel; Moor and Warwick, as the crew, sat waiting for instructions; and Hugh, the coachman, was ready to push off at the command. Soon, that command came. A strong hand sent them rustling through the reeds, the oars dropped, and with a farewell cheer from a group on the shore, the Kelpie glided out into the water.

Sylvia, too full of true happiness to talk, sat listening to the rhythmic sound of well-pulled oars, watching the green banks on either side, dipping her hands in the swirling water as it rippled by, and singing to the wind, as cheerful and calm as the river that reflected a smiling image of herself. She didn’t hear or care to know what her companions were talking about because she was focused on the beautiful picture-book that’s always ready for the youngest or oldest hands to turn the pages; she was embracing the presence of the playmates she loved most, and silently surrendering herself to the force that works wonders with its kind magic. Hour after hour, she traveled along that flowing path. Under bridges where early fishermen lifted their lines to let boats pass; past gardens cultivated by inexperienced townsfolk who worked an hour of labor to pay the city's daily tax; past honeymoon cottages where young wives walked with young husbands in the morning dew, or large houses closed off from the morning. Lovers floated down the stream with no one steering and trailing oars. College racing boats sped by with modern Greek chorus songs blasting and candid feedback from their scientific crews. Fathers rowed back and forth with boats full of beautiful children, who greeted them with cheerful hellos. Sometimes they encountered playful little boats filled with giggling girls, who made their way to shore with the most unpredictable movements and quirky commands in their unique style of navigation. Occasionally, a poet or philosopher would drift by, searching for truths or stories, where other men were catching fish.

All kinds of sights and sounds welcomed Sylvia, and she felt like she was watching a panorama painted in watercolors by an artist who breathed life into his work and gave each character the power to play its role. Never had human faces looked so beautiful to her eyes, as morning enhanced even the plainest with its warm glow; never had human voices sounded so musical to her ears, as daily worries had not yet introduced discord to the melodies shaped by sleep and illuminated by sunshine; never had the entire human race seemed so close and dear to her, as she was unconsciously connecting with everyone she met in that genuine Elixir Vitæ that warms the coldest blood and makes everyone feel like family; never had she felt so truly like her happiest self, for among all the more expensive pleasures she had experienced, none had been as comforting as this, as she flowed further and further up the stream and seemed to float into a world where the air brought only health and peace. Her friends wisely left her to her thoughts, a smiling silence their focus, and each of them found the day more beautiful and felt more ready to enjoy it because of the innocent company of womanhood and a joyful heart.

At noon, they dropped anchor under a sprawling oak tree that stood by the riverbank, a green refuge for travelers like themselves. They enjoyed their first meal laid out among white clovers, with a pair of squirrels watching them as curiously as people watch royalty at dinner, while a few gentle cows politely left the shade for a sunny spot to eat. They spent an hour or two chatting or lazily dozing on the grass; then a fresh breeze picked up, stirring them all, and after weighing anchor, they set sail for another destination.

Now Sylvia saw new sights as they quickly left the city behind and headed into the countryside. Sometimes they passed by hayfields, each a picture of tranquility, with white-sleeved mowers lined up; the pleasant sound of sharpened scythes; big loads rumbling up lanes with brown-faced kids shouting on top; rosy girls creating fragrant rows or bringing water to thirsty sweethearts leaning on their rakes. Often, they spotted old farmhouses with mossy roofs and long well-sweeps suggesting fresh drinks, with the drip of filled pitchers; orchards and cornfields rustled on either side, and grandmotherly caps peeked out from narrow windows, or sturdy women cared for babies in doorways while watching younger ones playing house beneath the "laylocks" by the wall. Villages, like white flocks, rested on the hillsides; martinbox schoolhouses popped up here and there, filled with busy voices and bright, longing eyes; and more than once they came across little mermen splashing around as they dove in, like a group of turtles tumbling off a sunny rock.

Then they floated under springtime arches, where a soft rustle seemed to whisper, "Stay!" along bright pathways, where the blue turned to gold and sparkled with its unsteady shimmer; passed islands so full of birds they looked like green cages floating in the sun, or doubling capes that opened long views of light and shade, through which they sailed into the delightful land where summer ruled supreme. To Sylvia, it felt as if the inhabitants of these lonely places had gathered at the shore to greet her as she arrived. Fleets of lilies opened their sails on either side, and cardinal flowers waved their red flags among the green. The sagittaria lifted its blue spears from arrow-shaped leaves; wild roses smiled at her with their blooming faces; meadow lilies rang their bright orange bells; and clematis and ivy hung garlands everywhere, as if her arrival was a floral celebration, and each plant came to honor her.

Her neighbors chatted as continuously as a flowing river, and Sylvia listened closely. Unconsciously, the changing scenes in front of them reminded her of other moments, and in the warm atmosphere around them, these memories surfaced freely. Each of the three had been lucky enough to experience different aspects of life abroad; they had seen various sides of it, and they were all young enough to still feel enthusiastic, skilled enough to share their stories with flair and finesse, and offer Sylvia a view of the world through lenses rosy enough to add a warmth that even Truth permits her sister Romance.

The wind carried them until sunset, then the sail was lowered[48] and the rowers picked up their oars. Sylvia insisted on her turn and struggled with one large oar while Warwick sat behind doing the real work. After blistering her hands and giving herself a color as vivid as any on her brother's palette, she declared herself satisfied and returned to her seat to watch the evening red transform the earth and sky, turning the river and its banks into a more magnificent spectacle than the splendor-loving Elizabeth ever saw along the Thames.

Anxious to reach a certain point, they rowed into the twilight, growing quieter as the deepening silence seemed to suggest that Nature was at her prayers. Slowly, the Kelpie floated along the shadowy path, and as the shores faded, the river darkened with leaning hemlocks or an overhanging cliff. Sylvia felt as if she were making the final journey across that endless stream where a pale boatman ferries many who are mourning.

The long silence was first broken by Moor's voice, saying—

"Adam, sing now."

If the mood of the moment had calmed Mark, touched Sylvia, and made Moor crave music, it had also softened Warwick. Leaning on his oar, he sang a German folk song with a warm, smooth voice, sending out echoes like a joyful winemaker might release down the Rhine. Sylvia wasn’t the type to cry, but as she listened, all the happiness of the day that had built up in her heart spilled over in sudden tears, flowing down silently and refreshing like a warm southern rain. She couldn’t explain why she was crying, as neither the song nor the singer had the power to evoke such a rare response, and at another time, she would have held back any visible sign of this inexplicable yet sweet feeling. Mark and Moor had joined in the refrain of the song, and [49] when that was finished, they started another; but Sylvia just sat there, letting her tears fall as they wished, singing inside, even though her eyes were full and her cheeks were wet faster than the wind could dry them.

After a lot of looking around and adjusting things, Mark finally found the spot he wanted. With a lot of oar splashing, chain clanking, and noisy boots, they managed to land, and Sylvia found herself standing on a green bank, holding her hammock and wondering whether the nighttime adventures ahead would be as enjoyable as the ones they’d had in the daylight. Mark and Moor unloaded the boat and looked for a good place to sleep. Warwick, being experienced, started building a fire, while the girl began setting up her little camp. The scene quickly lit up with warmth and color as the fire blazed, revealing the small kettle hung up on forked sticks and a lovely supper arranged on a flat stone. Soon, four pairs of wet feet gathered around the fire; the usual concerns about plates, knives, and cups faded away, making everyone forget about etiquette. They all felt pleasantly tired, which made the idea of going to bed so appealing that they decided to enjoy the moment a bit longer, like kids saving the best bite for last.

"What are you thinking about all by yourself?" Mark asked, settling onto his sister's plaid blanket, which she had spread a little away from the others, while she sat there watching the group in front of her with a dreamy look.

"I was watching your two friends. Look at how great they look with the red glow of the fire on their faces and the dark pines behind them." [50]

They made a great study together, as both were admirable men, yet completely different—one was the heroic type, while the other was more poetic. Warwick was a head taller than his tall friend, broad-shouldered, strong, and weathered by the elements. He had a strong head covered with curls of reddish-brown hair, piercing gray eyes, a distinguished nose, and a beard like one of Mark's sturdy saints. Power, intellect, and courage were evident in his face and build, making him the manliest man Sylvia had ever encountered. He leaned against the stone, but his posture was anything but relaxed, as the inherent restlessness of the man showed itself despite any exhaustion or calming effect of the moment or setting. Moor was much slimmer and displayed the effortless grace of a natural gentleman in every movement. He had a very attractive face, with a broad forehead, calm eyes, and a warm smile. One would suggest he had a sweet, strong character, having lived life well and discovered the secret of true success. He seemed to possess inner peace, and it was clear that no sound, no fleeting breath, no splash of color, and no hint of night or nature was without its appeal and meaning for him.

"Tell me about that guy, Mark. I've heard you mention him since you got back, but since I thought he was just some out-of-it artist, I didn’t bother to ask. Now that I've seen him, I want to know more," said Sylvia as her brother laid down after giving an approving glance at the group across from them.

"I met him in Munich when I first traveled abroad, and since then we've often run into each other during our journeys. He never writes but comes and goes, focused on his own things; still, you can never forget him, and I'm always[51] happy to feel his handshake again, it really brings so much energy and confidence."

"Is he good?" asked Sylvia, in a typical way for women, starting with the morals.

"Violently virtuous. He is a skilled individual, determined to live according to his beliefs and goals no matter what. He often condemns wrongdoing wherever he sees it and is quick to serve justice on all offenders, whether they’re powerful or not. Yet, he has a noble character, remarkable boldness of thought, and lives with the utmost integrity."

"Is he wealthy?"

"In his mind, it's because he desires so little."

"Is he married now?"

"No; he has no family and not many friends because he says what he means in the bluntest way, and few can handle the sincerity he brings."

"What does he do in the world?"

"Studies it like we study books; dives into everything, analyzes character, and shapes his own using materials that will endure. If that’s not genius, it’s something even better."

"Then he'll do a lot of good and become famous, right?"

"Great benefit to many, but I’m afraid he will never be famous. He’s too much of a fierce rebel for the old party, too much of an independent reformer to fit in with the new, and being born a century too early means he has to wait for his moment, or perform his role before the stage and audience are ready for him."

"Is he educated?"

"Very, in unusual kinds of wisdom; left college after a year because it couldn't give him what he wanted, and taking the world as his university, life as his teacher, says he won't graduate until his time ends with days."

"I know I will like him a lot."[52]

"I really hope so, for my sake. He’s a great guy at heart, and a perfect pick-me-up for those brave enough to give him a chance."

Sylvia was quiet, reflecting on everything she had just heard and finding a lot that intrigued her, because to her imaginative and passionate personality, there was something undeniably appealing about the strong, independent, self-sufficient man. Mark observed her for a moment, then asked with casual curiosity—

"How do you feel about this other friend of mine?"

"He left when I was so young that since he returned I've had to start over; but if I like him at the end of another month as much as I do now, I will try to make your friend my friend, because I really need someone like that."

Mark chuckled at his sister's straightforwardness, but he took her words as she intended and replied seriously—

"Better to wait on Platonics until you're forty. Even though Moor is twelve years older than you, he's still a young man, and you've become a very charming little woman."

Sylvia looked both disdainful and angry.

"You don’t need to worry. There is such a thing as genuine and straightforward friendship between men and women, and if I can’t find anyone of my own gender who can provide the support and happiness I seek, why shouldn’t I look for it elsewhere and accept it in whatever form it takes?"

"You can, my dear, and I’ll help you with all my heart, but you have to be ready to face the consequences no matter how they show up," said Mark, feeling pretty good about the idea his imagination created.

"I will," Sylvia said proudly, and fate took her at her word.[53]

Currently, someone suggested going to bed, and the idea was accepted without any disagreement.

"Where are you going to hang me?" asked Sylvia, as she grabbed her hammock and looked around with almost as much interest as if she were going to be hung upright.

"You won't be hanging up in a tree tonight but lying down like a ghost, and I ask you not to move until morning. There's an empty barn nearby, so we’ll have a roof over us for one more night," replied Mark, acting as the host while the others stayed behind to put out the fire and secure the food supplies.

An early moon lit Sylvia to bed, and when she was shown half the barn, which, since she was a Marine, was quite appropriately the bay, Mark explained, she dismissed the idea of being nervous or timid in such rough surroundings, made herself a cozy nest, and wished her brother a cheerful good night.

More exhausted than she would admit, Sylvia quickly fell asleep, despite the unfamiliarity of her situation and the sounds that fill a summer night with restless rustles and noises. She didn’t know how long she had been asleep, but suddenly woke up and sat up straight, feeling that strange thrill that sometimes jolts someone from a deep sleep, often signaling some fear or danger. She felt a hot tingle through her veins and nerves, and looked around, thinking of fire. But everything was dark and quiet, and after a few moments of waiting, she concluded that her spot had been too warm, as her temples throbbed and her cheeks were flushed from the stuffy air of the barn, which was half-filled with freshly made hay.

Crawling up a fragrant slope, she spread her plaid again and lay down where a cool breeze flowed through wide gaps in the wall. Sleep was slowly coming back when the[54] sound of footsteps startled it away and made her heart race, as they approached the new spot she had picked. Holding her breath, she listened. The soft footsteps got closer and closer until they stopped just a yard away from her, then someone seemed to throw themselves down, sigh heavily a few times, and grow quiet as if falling asleep.

"It’s Mark," Sylvia thought and whispered his name, but no one replied. From the other corner of the barn, she could hear her brother mumbling in his sleep. Who could it be then? Mark had said there were no cattle nearby, and she was sure none of her friends had left their camp because her brother was talking as usual in his dreams. Someone seemed restless, turning frequently with noticeable movements; that must be Warwick, she figured, while the quietest of the three revealed his presence by laughing softly, the kind of laughter she recognized as Moor's. These realizations filled her with images of grimy travelers, overly sentimental farmhands, and sickly emigrants in sad states. For a moment, she felt an overwhelming urge to scream, but she held back; despite her sensitivity, Sylvia was quite practical and had that spirit that hates to be defeated, even by a natural fear. She remembered how she had scoffed at being called timid and the endless teasing she'd endure if her mysterious neighbor turned out to be just a harmless wanderer or a figment of her imagination. So, she stayed silent, trying to think bravely as the sweat gathered on her forehead and every sense became painfully alert—

"I won’t scream if I get scared and my hair turns gray, and I don’t want to look foolish tomorrow. I told them to test me, and I won’t back down at the first sign of danger. I’ll stay calm if it doesn't involve me until morning, when I’ll know exactly how to react and avoid looking ridiculous, even if it means staying up all night."

Holding tightly to her determination, Sylvia lay still, listening to the chirp of the cricket outside while feeling uneasy about the situation inside. The newcomer stirred heavily, sighed deeply, and seemed to wake frequently, like someone too sad or exhausted to find peace. She would have been smarter to just scream and get it over with, because she tortured herself with her vivid imagination and suffered more from her own fears than from finding a dozen vampires. Every story of evil she had ever heard came back to haunt her at the worst possible time, and even though she recognized their absurdity, she couldn’t escape their grip. She wondered until she could wonder no more what the morning would reveal. She tried to calculate how many springs it would take to leap over the low partition separating her from her sleeping protector. She wished with all her heart that she had stayed in her nest by the door, watching for dawn with eyes that longed to see the light.

In the middle of these distressing feelings, the distant crow of a watchful rooster reminded her that the short summer night was coming to an end and relief was on its way. This comforting thought had such a positive effect that she slipped into what seemed like a brief moment of oblivion but was actually an hour of restless sleep. When she finally opened her eyes again, the first red streaks of dawn were visible in the east, and a faint light poured into the barn through the large door that had been left slightly open for fresh air. For a moment, Sylvia lay there gathering her thoughts, then propped herself up on her arm, looked determinedly behind her, stared wide-eyed for a moment, and then dropped back down, laughing with a kind of giddiness that, after her long fear, felt somewhat hysterical. All she saw was a gentle-eyed Alderney, which lifted its antler-like head and looked at her with a trusting expression that earned it forgiveness for its innocent mischief.

Through the relief of both her mind and body that she felt to a great extent, her first thought was a grateful, "Thank goodness I didn't call Mark; I would never hear the end of this." Having faced her fears on her own, she celebrated her success privately and, like a typical girl, decided to keep quiet about her first night’s adventures. Gathering herself, she moved closer and stroked her recent fear, which leaned toward her with a comforting sound and chewed on her shawl like a pampered lamb. But before this new friendship was even a few minutes old, Sylvia's heavy eyelids closed, her head dropped lower and lower, her hand became still on the mottled neck, and with a long, tired sigh, she fell back onto the hay, leaving little Alderney to look over her much more calmly than she had watched over it.

Very early, they were afloat again, and as they glided[57] up the stream, Sylvia watched the world waking up, seeing in it what her own awakening could be. The sun wasn't visible above the hills yet, but the sky was ready for its arrival, with the soft flush of color dawn gives only to her royal lover. Birds were singing morning songs as if all the joy of their short lives had to be expressed at once. Flowers stirred and brightened like kids after a nap. A gentle breeze came whispering from the woods, bringing the scent of pines, the cool breath of damp spots, the refreshing kiss that leaves a glow behind. Light mists floated down the river like fading dreams that had lingered overnight, and every ripple breaking on the shore seemed to sing a musical good morning.

Sylvia couldn't hide the exhaustion from her long watch; and after almost falling overboard when she dozed off, she settled in and slept until the sound of the keel scraping on a rocky shore roused her. She discovered they had arrived at a new harbor sheltered by a cliff, where the deep shadow was a welcome relief from the harsh noon sunlight on the water.

"How do you plan to take care of yourself this after[58]noon, Adam?" asked Mark, when dinner was finished and his sister was occupied feeding the birds.

"In this way," replied Warwick, pulling out a book and getting comfortable in a cozy nook of the rock.

"Moor and I want to climb the cliff and draw the view, but the path is too rough for Sylvia. Would you mind keeping an eye on her for an hour or two? Just read and let her entertain herself; but please, don’t let her get into any trouble while enjoying her freedom, as she’s fearless and loves to experiment."

"I'll do my best," replied Warwick, sounding resigned.

Having set up the hammock and made sure Sylvia was comfortably in it, the climbers left, allowing her to enjoy the gentle sway. For half an hour, she swung lazily, gazing up at the green canopy above, where various insects were busy with their small joys and worries, or out over the peaceful landscape soaking up the warmth of a clear afternoon. Then she picked up a book that Mark had brought for his own enjoyment and began to read as intently as her companion, who was leaning against the boulder and slowly turning the pages, with leafy shadows flickering over his bare head and alternating between sun and shade. The book turned out to be engaging, and Sylvia quickly got immersed in the story when a sudden movement caused her swing to tip dangerously to one side, and in trying to steady herself, she dropped her book. This created a dilemma, as getting into a hammock and getting out on your own are two completely different things. She looked down at the distance from her hammock to the ground and imagined it was unusually high, meant to keep her in place. She clutched the hammock with one hand and reached down with the other, but the book teasingly fluttered its pages just out of reach. She assessed Warwick; he hadn't noticed her situation, and she felt an unusual hesitance to ask for help since he didn’t seem like the type who was used to responding to a woman's request. After several unsuccessful attempts, she decided to risk an awkward descent; gathering herself, she was about to dive out when Warwick shouted, "Stop!" in a way that nearly created the disaster he wanted to prevent. Sylvia froze, and as he approached, he picked up the book, glanced at the title, and then looked sharply at her.

"Do you like this?"

"Very much so."

"Are you free to read whatever you want?"

"Yes, sir. That's Mark's choice, but I didn't bring a book."

"I suggest you toss it into the river; it's not the right book for you."

Sylvia caught a glimpse of the one he had been reading himself, and driven by a sudden urge to see what would happen, she responded with a look as sharp as his own—

"You don't like my book; would you suggest yours?"

"In this case, yes; in one, you'll find a lot of deception wrapped in luxury and fancy clothing, while in the other, there's some truth hidden among the fig leaves. Make your choice."

He offered both, but Sylvia chose to stay polite.

"I appreciate it, but I'll pass on both; however, if you could hold the hammock steady, I'll look for some safer entertainment for myself."

He complied with one of the funny expressions that often crossed his face. Sylvia descended as gracefully as she could and wandered up and down the cliffs. Warwick returned to his seat and let out his "barbaric yawp," but seemed to find Truth in a half-dressed state less interesting than Youth in a gray gown and round hat, which is a taste worth applauding. The girl had little chance for fun, and after gathering moss for pillows, laying out a white fungus to dry for a future pin-cushion, harvesting pennyroyal in small bundles tied with grass blades, watching a battle between black ants and red, and memorizing the landscape, she had run out of things to do. Leaning on a stone, she looked at the earth and sky with a somewhat defeated expression.

"You probably want something to do, right?"

"Yes, sir; since I'm fairly new to this kind of life, I haven't figured out how to spend my time yet."

"I see that, and after taking away one job from you, I'll try to make it up with another."

Warwick stood up and walked over to the lone birch that shimmered among the pines like a fragile spirit of the forest. He soon came back with strips of shiny bark.

"You wanted baskets to carry your stuff yesterday; should we make some now?" he asked.

"How foolish of me not to think of that! Yes, thank you, I would love it very much;" and pulling out her housewife, Sylvia got to work with a beaming smile.

Warwick sat a little below her on the rock, quietly shaping his basket. This didn’t sit well with Sylvia, as she felt lively and chatty and wanted a conversation to keep her thoughts as occupied as the birch rolls were keeping her hands busy. She was sure he could do it perfectly if he wanted to. She surveyed the area with sly glances, made several attempts to engage, and sent out signals with her scissors, needles, and thread. But he didn’t return her gaze; he only gave short replies to her comments, and declined her offers to help with a distracted "No, thank you." Then she felt irritated by this apparent neglect and thought, while frowning at her work behind his back—

"He treats me like a kid—fine, then, I’ll act like one and bombard him with questions until he has to talk; because he can talk, he should talk, and he will talk."

"Mr. Warwick, do you like kids?" she started, with a confident demeanor.

"Better than guys or girls."

"Do you like entertaining them?"

"Very much when in the mood."

"Are you in the mood now?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"Then why don’t you entertain me?"

"Because you’re not a child."

"I thought you believed I was one."

"If I had, I probably would have put you on my lap and told you fairy tales, or made dolls for you out of this bark, instead of sitting here quietly and weaving a basket for your supplies."

There was an intriguing smile on Warwick's lips as he spoke, and Sylvia felt a bit embarrassed by her first attempt. But there was a thrill in the boldness, and changing the subject, she gave it another go.

"Mark was telling me last night about the awesome college you picked; I thought it must be a really unique and interesting way to learn, and I was really curious[62] to know what you’ve been studying recently. Can I ask you now?"

"Men and women," was the short answer.

"Do you have your lesson, sir?"

"A part of it pretty thoroughly, I think."

"Would you think I’m being rude if I asked which part?"

"The second one."

"And what conclusions do you come to about this area of the topic?" asked Sylvia, smiling and intrigued.

"That it's both risky and unsatisfying."

He spoke so seriously and looked so stern that Sylvia felt a strong instinct to stay quiet until she finished making a canoe-shaped basket, the perfect size that made her suddenly want to fill it. She had already spotted a knoll across the river covered in vines, looking so promising for berries that she found it impossible to resist the urge to explore that way. The boat was too big for her to handle alone, but she was feeling adventurous, and after one discovery trip with little success, she decided to give it another shot, hoping a second attempt in a different direction would be more rewarding.

"Is your basket finished, sir?" she asked.

"Yes; do you want it?"

"Wow, you made it like an Indian would, using grass instead of thread. It’s way more impressive than mine because the green stitches decorate the white bark, while the black ones ruin it. I can tell a guy made your basket and a woman made mine."

"Is it because one is ugly and strong while the other is graceful but can't stand on its own?" asked Warwick, standing up with a[63] gesture that sent the silvery shreds flying away in the wind.

"Both have the same amount, though I think the woman would fill hers faster if she had what she needed to do it. Do you know there are berries on that hillside across the way?"

"I see vines, but I doubt there will be any fruit, because boys and birds are more abundant than blackberries."

"I truly believe they’ve left some for us; and since Mark mentioned you appreciate honesty, I think I’ll take the chance to ask you to row me across and help me fill the baskets on the other side."

Sylvia looked up at him with a cheerful mix of uncertainty and boldness on her face, and gave him his hat.

"Sure thing, I will," said Warwick, leading the way to the boat with a quickness that showed how much he preferred being active over being idle.

There was no dry spot to land right across, and as he rowed further, Adam focused on Sylvia with a look unique to him, a gaze sharper than soft, which seemed to see right through her with its quick perception. He noticed a face full of contradictions—youthful, innocent, and intelligent, but also marked by the unspoken sadness that comes from disappointment and longing. Her mouth was sweet and gentle, just as a woman's should be, her forehead lively and contemplative; but her eyes shifted between being eager, distant, or sad, and there was a lot of pride in the way her small head was held, with wavy golden hair pulled back into a green snood, from where little strands would occasionally escape to dance on her forehead or hang around her neck. A very meaningful but not conventionally beautiful face, lacking harmony. The dark eyes, against their fair backdrop, disrupted the vision like a discord in music jars the ear; even when she smiled, the shadow from her dark lashes seemed to cast a gloom that was never entirely gone. Her voice, which should have been light and girlish, was deep and rich like a grown woman's, occasionally ringing out with a bright tone, as if a different, happier person was speaking.

Sylvia couldn't be offended by the intense gaze he gave her, though the uncomfortable feeling of being analyzed and judged made her respond with a look that was meant to be dignified but came off as a bit defiant. More than one smile crossed Warwick's face as he observed her. The moment the boat glided softly through the rushes lining the shore, she jumped up the bank and, leaving a basket behind as a hint, rushed to the sandy hill, where she was thrilled to find the vines heavy with berries. As Warwick joined her, she held up a shiny cluster, exclaiming with a hint of triumph in her voice—

"My faith is rewarded; try it and see for yourself."

He accepted them with a nod and said warmly—

"As my prediction didn't come true, let's see if yours will."

"I accept the challenge." And down on her knees went Sylvia among the vines, not caring about stains, tears, or scraped hands.

Warwick walked away to give her "claim" some space, and silence settled between them; one was too focused on thorns, the other was lost in thought, leaving the summer calm undisturbed. Sylvia worked with as much energy as if a silver cup was the prize for her efforts. The sun blazed down and the hill blocked the wind, causing drops to form on her forehead and her cheeks to flush; but she simply removed her hat, pushed back her hair, and moved on to a better spot. Vines clung to her sleeves and skirt as if trying to discourage the determined forager, but she pressed on, wrenching and tearing, letting out an impatient "Ah!" and casting a quick glance at her damaged clothes and fingers. Lively crickets swarmed around her, grumpy wasps challenged her right to the fruit, and tipsy bees zigzagged into her, clearly influenced by blackberry wine. She paid them no mind, even though she would have loved to befriend all of them at another time; instead, she found solace in the cheerful chirping of sand swallows sitting on the mullein-tops, the graceful flutter of yellow butterflies, and how quickly her little basket filled with "Ethiop sweets." When the last handful went in, she jumped up, exclaiming "Done!" with a suddenness that scattered the Long Parliament, making its members flee as if a second "Noll" had shown up among them. "Done!" echoed Warwick's response from below, and as she hurried down to meet him, she proudly revealed her haul, saying playfully—

"I’m glad we both won, but to be totally honest, I think mine is definitely the fullest." But as she lifted her birch basket, the handle broke, and the basket tumbled down into the tall grass swaying at her feet.

Warwick couldn't hold back a laugh at the look of shock that replaced the joy on Sylvia's face, and for a moment, she felt both annoyed and sulky. Hot, tired, disappointed, and, hardest of all, mocked, it was one of those moments that really test a girl's spirit. But she was too mature to cry, too proud to complain, and too well-mannered to be bitter, so she let the brief emotional storm pass unnoticed, she believed, and joining in the fun, she said as she knelt down beside the wreck—

"This is a practical example of the old saying, and I deserve it for my bragging. Next time, I'll try to blend strength and beauty in my work."

To wise people, character is revealed by small details. Warwick stopped laughing, and the sight of the young girl in the grass, picking up the little harvest she had just lost with her hurt hands, seemed to affect him. His expression softened as he gathered a few large leaves, laid them on the grass, and sat down beside Sylvia, looking under her hat with a look of mixed regret and warmth.

"Now, young philosopher, put your berries on that green plate while I fix the basket. Remember this when you work with bark: shape your handle along the grain, and pick a strip that is both smooth and wide."

Then, pulling out his knife, he got to work, and while he tied green twigs together, as if the task inspired him, he shared with her some stories about his time with the Indians, from whom he learned a lot about their skills in the woods, their crafts, and their beliefs; he expanded the tale until the little canoe was ready for another launch. With her mind filled with thoughts of war paths and wampum, Sylvia followed him to the riverbank, and as they floated back, she dipped her stained fingers in the water, soothing their sting with its coolness until they passed the landing spot, when she asked, with curiosity—

"Where are we headed now? Have I been so difficult that I need to be taken home?"[67]

"We're going to get a third course to go with the berries, unless you're too scared to trust me."

"Actually, I'm not; take me wherever you want, sir."

Something in her honest tone, her trusting gaze, seemed to please Warwick; he sat for a moment staring into the brown depths of the water and let the boat drift, with only the sound of the musical drip of drops from the oars.

"You’re stepping on a rock, sir."

"I did that three months ago."

He spoke to himself, his expression darkening, and he tossed the hair off his forehead with an impatient gesture. A quick stroke avoided a jolt, and the boat sped down the stream, leaving a trail of foam behind it as Warwick rowed with the energy of someone trying to escape a bothersome memory or nagging worry. Sylvia was greatly amazed by the change in him, but she held on tightly with her hair flying and lips parted to catch the spray, enjoying the breezy ride along a path patterned with wide bands of blue and gold. The race ended as suddenly as it started, and Warwick seemed to be the winner, for when they reached the edge of a floating lily island, the cloud had disappeared. As he put away his oars, he turned and said, with the look and demeanor of a cheerful boy—

"You were sleeping when we drove by this morning, but I know you like lilies, so let's go fishing."

"Absolutely!" exclaimed Sylvia, grabbing a large white flower with such enthusiasm that she almost toppled over the edge. Warwick pulled her back and collected the flowers himself.

"That's enough, sir, way more than we need. We have plenty to set our table and take care of ourselves; let's leave the rest for other travelers who might pass by."[68]

As Warwick presented her with the dripping bouquet, he noticed the pale hand marked with red lines.

"Poor hand! Let the lilies comfort it. You’re a true woman, Miss Sylvia, because even though your palm is purple, there’s not a stain on your lips, and it seems you haven’t worked or suffered for yourself."

"I don't deserve that compliment because I was only focused on trying to outdo you if I could, so you're mistaken again, you see."

"Not really, I think. Some faces are such a true reflection of character that you can't be wrong about them. If you’re unsure, just look down into the river, and one of them will definitely smile back at you."

Pleased but feeling a bit shy, Sylvia kept herself busy tying up the long brown stems and dusting her nose with yellow pollen as she breathed in the bittersweet scent of the lilies. But when Warwick turned to take up the oars again, she said—

"Let’s drift out like we drifted in. It’s so calm and beautiful here; I want to stay and soak it all in, because we might never see a moment like this again."

He nodded, and they both sat quietly, gazing at the lush meadows stretching along the shore, soaking in the beauty of the landscape until its tranquil spirit seemed to seep into them, adding a subtle charm to that moment, which would forever remain distinct, peaceful, and joyful in their memories. It was a still August day, with a shimmer in the air that cloaked the distant hills in a soft haze, never truly captured by any artist. The warmth and fullness of midsummer hung over the greenery of fields and forests. Scents drifted by from freshly cut meadows and blooming gardens. The sky[69] displayed its clearest blue, and playful winds moved up the river, rustling the lily leaves to reveal their purple undersides, creating shadowy ripples in the tall grass, and gently lifting Sylvia's hair from her forehead as she sat, softly swaying with the motion of the boat. They gradually floated into the current, Warwick slowly pushing through the water with hesitant strokes, and Sylvia's thoughts slowly emerged from their dreamy bliss, as she nodded in agreement—

"Yes, I’m ready now. That was a nice little moment, and I’m glad I experienced it, because those times come back to lift me up when many more exciting ones are completely forgotten." A moment later, she added eagerly as a new point of interest appeared: "Mr. Warwick, I see smoke. I know there’s a fire in the woods; I want to see it; please land again."

He looked back at the black cloud drifting away in the wind, noticed Sylvia's longing in her expression, and silently agreed; as someone who understood character well, he was eager to extend a conversation that allowed him to see the unique mix of the woman and the child within her.

"I love fire, and it must be amazing if we could just see it clearly. This bank isn't high enough; let's get closer and enjoy it," said Sylvia, noticing that an orchard and a couple of hills were blocking the view of the burning woods.

"It's too far."

"Not at all. I'm not some delicate lady. I can walk, run, and climb just like any guy; so you don’t need to worry about me. I might never see something like this again, and you know you'd go if you were by yourself. Please come, Mr. Warwick."[70]

"I promised Mark I would take care of you, and because you love fire, I'd rather not take you into that furnace, in case you never come out. Let's go back right now."

The choice of his tone annoyed Sylvia, and she immediately became willful, responding in a voice just as firm as his—

"No; I want to see it. I'm always allowed to do what I want, so I'm going," and with that rebellious comment, she walked directly toward the burning woods.

Warwick watched her, briefly tempted to pick her up and carry her back to the boat like a mischievous kid. But the determined look of the figure walking ahead made him realize it would be pointless, so with an amused expression, he casually followed her.

Sylvia hadn’t walked five minutes before she was sure it was too far; but having pushed back against that idea, she wouldn’t admit she was wrong and, feeling stubborn, insisted on proving her point, even if it meant walking all night. She continued on, climbing over walls, crawling under fences, crossing streams, trudging through plowed fields, and weaving through the rustling corn that turned its broad leaves toward the sun, always ahead of her companion, who followed with patient obedience but also a smirking expression that motivated her like nothing else could. The clock struck six from the church behind the hill; yet the woods seemed to pull away from her as she pressed on, with the steady footsteps behind her still sounding tireless, and Sylvia continued until, breathless but triumphant, she finally reached what she was looking for.

Keeping out of the smoke, she found a rocky spot that was still warm and charred from the recent flames. As she paused there, she forgot her own mischief while watching the fire perform before her eyes. Many acres were ablaze, the air was filled with the rush and roar of the powerful flames, the crash of trees succumbing to it, and the shouts of men who fought it in vain.

"Wow, this is amazing! I wish Mark and Mr. Moor were here. Aren't you glad you came, sir?"

Sylvia looked up at her companion, who was focused on the scene with the keen, attentive expression often seen in a good hunting dog when it senses danger nearby. But Warwick didn’t respond, because as she spoke, a loud, piercing scream of human pain rose above the chaos, chillingly clear and full of foreboding.

"Someone got killed when that tree fell! Stay here until I get back;" and Adam walked into the woods as if his place was where the danger was.

For ten minutes Sylvia waited, pale and anxious; then her patience ran out. She thought to herself, "I can go where he does, and women are always more helpful than men in situations like this," and she headed toward the faint sound of voices. The ground was hot under her feet, and red eyes blinked at her from the charred soil, while flickering flames jumped up here and there, as if the fire was still hiding, ready to flare up again. Focused on her good deed and energized by the unfamiliar scene, she charged ahead recklessly, jumping over burnt logs, avoiding still-smoking stumps, and eagerly peering through the smoky haze that shifted back and forth. An impassable ditch forced her to stop, and as she paused to catch her breath, she realized she had lost her way. The sound of voices had faded, a red glow was growing in front of her, and thick smoke surrounded her in a suffocating haze. A feeling of confusion swept over her; she had no idea where she was, and after a quick dash in what she thought was a safe direction ended abruptly when a burning tree fell in front of her, she stopped, trying to figure things out. Darkness and danger closed in around her, flames flickered on every side, and choking smoke obscured both the ground and the sky. A bare rock offered a glimmer of hope for safety, and wrapping her head in her skirt, she lay down, feeling faint and blind, with a dull ache in her temples and fear in her heart that quickly morphed into terror as her breathing became labored and her head began to spin.

"This is the end of the enjoyable journey! Oh, why does no one care about me?"

As the regret grew, a shout of pain and plea escaped her. She hadn’t called for help until now, believing she was too far away and her voice too weak to cut through the noise around her. But someone had noticed her, because as soon as the cry left her lips, footsteps came crashing through the woods, a pair of strong arms lifted her up, and before she could gather her scattered thoughts, she was placed safely on the green bank of a small pool.

"Well, salamander, have you had enough fire?" asked Warwick, as he splashed a handful of water in her face with such enthusiastic intent that it left her breathless.

"Yes, oh yes—and water, too! Please stop and let me catch my breath!" gasped Sylvia, pushing away a second splash and looking around in a daze.

"Why did you leave the place where I left you?" was the next question, asked a bit sternly.

"I wanted to find out what happened."

"So you walked into a bonfire to satisfy your curiosity, even though you were told to stay out? You'd never make a Casabianca."[73]

"I hope not, because out of all the silly kids, that boy was the silliest, and he deserved to be called out for his lack of common sense," the girl exclaimed, irritated.

"Obedience is a traditional virtue that you should nurture alongside your common sense, young lady."

Sylvia changed the subject because Warwick was looking at her with an angry expression that was a bit unsettling. Fanning herself with the damp hat, she asked suddenly—

"Was the guy hurt, sir?"

"Yeah."

"Really?"

Yes.

"Is there nothing I can do for him? He’s really far from any house, and I have some experience with wounds."

"He is beyond all help, beyond all need now."

"Is Mr. Warwick dead?"

"Totally dead."

Sylvia sat down just as suddenly as she had gotten up, covering her face with a shiver as she recalled that her own stubbornness had led to a similar fate, and she too might now be 'beyond help, above all need.' Warwick went down to the pool to wash his hot face and dirty hands; as he returned, Sylvia approached him with a submissive—

"I'll head back now if you're ready, sir."

If the journey there had felt long, the return felt even longer, as neither pride nor stubbornness supported her now, and each step required effort. "I can rest in the boat," was her comforting thought; so she was greatly dismayed when she reached the river and saw no boat in sight.

"Why, Mr. Warwick, where is it?"

"A long way down the river by now, I guess.[74] Thinking we would only stop for a moment, I didn’t tie it down, and the tide swept it away."

"But what should we do?"

"One of two choices—either spend the night here or take the longer route by the bridge."

"Is it far away?"

"Probably about three or four miles, I guess."

"Is there no quicker way? no boat or ride available?"

"If you're willing to wait, I can search for our runaway or get a wagon from the town."

"It’s getting late, and I guess you’ll be gone for a while?"

"Maybe."

"What should we do?"

"I shouldn't try to give advice. Do what you want, I'll follow orders."

"If you were by yourself, what would you do?"

"Swim over."

Sylvia looked upset, Warwick unreadable, the river broad, the road lengthy, and the cliffs the most unreachable spots. An intense silence followed, then she said honestly—

"It’s my own fault, and I’ll deal with the consequences. I’ll take the bridge and leave you the river. If I’m not back by dawn, tell Mark I wished him a good night," and mustering her strength, she walked off confidently with an outward calm and inner discomfort.

As before, Warwick followed in silence. At first, she stayed ahead, then let him catch up, and soon fell behind, trudging along stubbornly through thick and thin, trying in vain to hide the hunger and[75] fatigue that were quickly draining her of both strength and spirit. Adam watched her with a masculine sense of the fairness of the consequences his stubborn companion had brought on herself. But as he noticed the bounce leave her steps, the color fade from her cheeks, the determined mouth loosen, and the longing eyes dim occasionally with tears of tiredness and frustration, sympathy overtook his irritation, and he softened. His steady walk came to a stop, and pausing by a roadside spring, he pointed to a mossy stone, saying without any hint of superiority—

"We're tired, let's take a break."

Sylvia sat down right away, and for a few minutes, neither of them spoke because the air was filled with sounds more relevant to the summer night than human voices. From the thicket behind them, the cooing of wood pigeons could be heard, and from the grass at their feet, the soft chirp of crickets. A gentle breeze whispered through the willow, the little spring dripped musically from the rock, and from across the meadows came the sweet sound of a bell. Twilight was settling over the forest, hills, and stream, bringing a sense of refreshment and calm that soothed all weariness of body and soul, more appreciated by Sylvia than the welcome seat and leafy cup of water Warwick brought her from the spring.

The sight of a thirsty sparrow made her thoughts take a pleasant turn. Sitting still, she watched the little bird hop down to the pool, drink and bathe, then fly to a willow branch, fluff its feathers, dry its wings, and sit chirping softly as if singing its evening song. Warwick noticed her interest, and digging into his pocket, he found the remnants of a biscuit, scattered a few pieces on the ground in front of him, and started a low, sweet whistle that gradually built into a lively and clear tune, as enchanting as any bird song in the woods. The little sparrow stopped its chirping, listened with its neck stretched and its eyes wide, hopping restlessly from twig to twig until it hung right above the musician’s head, stirred with a little flutter of surprise, delight, and hesitation. Picking up a crumb or two in his hand, Warwick held it out to the bird, while the invitation grew softer, sweeter, and more urgent, drawing the winged guest closer and closer, enchanted by the charm.

Suddenly, a late blackbird landed on the wall, looked over the group, and broke into a happy song that briefly drowned out his rival's calls. Then, as if claiming his prize, he fluttered down to the grass, ate his fill, took a sip from the mossy basin along the way, and flew off singing over the river, leaving a trail of music behind him. There was something bold and daring about this that inspired the little sparrow. His last bit of fear seemed to vanish, and he flew confidently to Warwick's palm, pecking at the crumbs with grateful chirps and friendly glances from his bright, quick eye. It was a lovely sight for the girl; the man, a picture of strength, held the tiny bird that, with perfect instinct, sensed and trusted the superior nature that had not yet lost its access to the innocent joys that Nature offers to those who cherish her most. Without thinking, Sylvia clapped her hands, and startled by the sudden noise, the little sparrow flew away.

"Thanks for the loveliest sight I've seen in a long time. How did you learn this wonderful skill, Mr. Warwick?"

"I was a lonely boy and found my only friends in the woods and fields. I learned to appreciate their value, they recognized my need, and when I sought their friendship, they gave it willingly. Now we should go; you’re really tired, let me help you."

He reached out his hand to her, and she placed hers into it with[77] a confidence as natural as a bird’s. Then, hand in hand, they crossed the bridge and entered the wilderness again; climbing slopes still warm and fragrant, passing through cool, damp valleys, along meadows sparkling with fireflies and filled with the sound of croaking frogs; over rocks crisp with pale mosses, and between dark fir trees, where shadows lingered and gentle breezes lulled themselves to sleep. They spoke rarely but felt no awkwardness in the silence, no sense of restraint, as they no longer felt like strangers to each other. This spontaneous friendship added an indescribable charm to their dusky walk. Warwick felt content in her innocent trust in him, the touch of the small hand he held, and the sight of the quiet figure by his side. Sylvia enjoyed being the focus of his care, believed they would come to know each other better in three days of this free life than in three months at home, and delighted in discovering unexpected qualities in him, like the soft lining of a chestnut burr, which she had compared him to more than once that afternoon. So, both unconsciously surrendering to the mood of the moment, they strolled through the twilight in that meaningful silence that often speaks louder than the most eloquent words.

The warm glow of their own fire eventually made them happy, and when the last step was taken, Sylvia sat down with a deep feeling that she could never get up again. Warwick briefly explained their mishap, while Mark, filled with brotherly concern, stoked the fire to a blaze so that his sister's feet could dry, gave her a drink to prevent her from getting cold, and recommended she use her hammock as soon as supper was over. She went away with him, but a moment later, she returned to Warwick with a box of Prue's ointment and a soft handkerchief torn into bandages.

"What’s next?" he asked.

"I would like to tend to your burns, sir."

"They will be fine with a little water; you go and rest."

"Mr. Warwick, you know you ate your dinner with your left hand and pulled both behind you when you saw me looking at them. Please let me make it easier for you; they were burnt for me, and I won’t get any sleep until I get my way."

There was a strange mix of authority and pleading in her demeanor, and before the owner could respond, whether to refuse or agree, she took hold of the burned hands, covered the red blisters with a cool bandage, and smoothed out the frown of pain on Warwick's forehead with the promise of relief. As she tied the final knot, Sylvia looked up with an expression that silently apologized for her previous misbehavior and showed gratitude for the help given; then, seeming to find peace in her heart, she left before her patient could express his thanks.

She didn't come back, so Mark sent a kid to look for the lost boat, leaving the two friends alone; Warwick watched the fire, while Moor watched him until, nodding toward a small pair of boots pointed out in front of the fire, Adam said—

"The person wearing those bold outfits is the most unpredictable person I've ever encountered. You can't imagine the trouble she's caused me since you left."

"I can picture it."

"She’s as strange and has as many different sides as Puck;[79] a gnat, a will-o'-the-wisp, a Sister of Charity, a sweet-faced child; and it’s hard to say which version of her is most appealing. It’s a tough job for anyone who has her and tries to keep her."

"Strong but joyful; because a word can calm the fierce spirit, a glance can warm the heart, and a kind deed will bring about an even kinder response. She is a woman to be understood deeply, taught with care, and once you win her over, loved with an unwavering affection."

Moor spoke softly, and the firelight gave his face a deeper red than before. Warwick studied him closely for a moment, then said, with his usual bluntness—

"Geoffrey, you should get married."

"Show me the way by risking your own heart, Adam."

"I've."

"I knew it. Tell me the story."

"It’s the same old story—a beautiful woman, a foolish man; a few weeks of uncertainty, a few weeks of joy; then the two step back to consider the jump before they make it; after that, either peace or misery, depending on whether they choose wisely or foolishly."

"When does the probation end, Adam?"

"In June, hopefully."

The hope for freedom gave Warwick's voice a passionate intensity, making his friend believe in a deep and powerful emotion as strong as the heart he knew so well. No further confessions disrupted his peace, as Warwick dismissed complaints; he didn't want pity, and sympathy couldn't change the past—only time could heal it, and he was relying on time for help. He got up as if heading to bed but paused behind Moor, lifted his face upwards, and said, directing a unique look at this friend—

"If my confidence were a good gift, you should have it. But my experience shouldn't ruin your faith in women. Keep it as honorable as ever, and may God send you the partner you deserve. Geoffrey, good night."

"Good night, Adam."

And with a handshake that showed more affection than many softer gestures, they said goodbye—Warwick to gaze at the stars for hours, and Moor to think by the fire until the little boots were dry.

Until then, they had been a pretty respectable group, but the[81] next morning, something in the air seemed to lift everyone's spirits, and they headed up the river like a bunch of kids on a joyful outing. Sylvia adorned herself with garlands until she looked like a mermaid; Mark, acting as captain, gave orders with that distinctive Marblehead accent; Moor kept up a barrage of pun-filled jokes; Warwick sang like a cheerful giant; while the Kelpie danced over the water as if filled with the same carefree spirit, and the very ripples seemed to giggle as they rushed past.

"Mark, there's a boat coming up behind us with three guys in it, who clearly plan to pass us with a big show of skill. Of course, you won't let that happen," said Sylvia, excited at the idea of a race.

Her brother glanced back, gave a careful look around, and nodded in approval.

"They're worth a lesson, and they're going to get one. Take it easy for now, until they pass; then go hard on them, and show them a sample of true art."

A sudden silence fell on the Kelpie as the blue shirts came close, caught up, and passed by with impressive skill, just as Sylvia had predicted. They mimicked the confident behavior of seasoned watermen as best as three focused teenagers could manage. As the foam from their wake splashed against the other boat's side, Mark called out to them—

"Good morning, guys! We'll be waiting for you up there, at the curve."

"All calm," replied the competing helmsman, bowing to Sylvia, while the other two noticeably sped up the "Juanita," whose sentimental name didn't really match its sleek look.

"Short-sighted kids, wasting their breath like that; but they do pretty well for their age," Mark remarked, in a fatherly way, as he waited for the others to get a good lead to make the race fairer. "Alright, then!" he whispered a moment later; and, as if suddenly bursting with energy, the Kelpie took off with smooth speed from strength and skill. Sylvia watched both boats, wishing she could grab an oar herself, yet filled with admiration for the skilled rowers, whose quick strokes sent foam flying and turned the moment into one of joy and excitement. The blue shirts gave it their all against rivals who had rowed in many boats and on many waters. They held the lead until near the bend, then Mark's team pushed their reserved strength for a final effort, and rowing with determination, steadily gained ground, until, with a triumphant stroke, they surged far ahead and, with their oars at rest, waited in generous silence for the Juanita to catch up, gracefully acknowledging her defeat with a cheerful cheer from her breathless crew.

For a moment, the two boats floated next to each other as the young men exchanged compliments and jokes because a river is a highway where all travelers can greet one another, and college guys are all about being "Hail fellow! well met" with everyone.

Sylvia sat watching the guys, and one of them caught her attention. The helmsman who had bowed to her was slender and dark-skinned, with warm eyes, lively manners, and a remarkably melodic voice. She thought he must be a Spaniard and enjoyed the charm of this figure until a revealing smile at the corners of the young man's mouth showed that he noticed her interest. She blushed as she caught his look of playful admiration and quickly started to remove the weedy decorations she had forgotten. But she paused for a moment when she heard a surprised voice exclaim—

"Is that you, Warwick, or just your ghost?"

Looking up, Sylvia saw Adam lift the hat he had pulled down over his forehead and take a slender brown hand that was extended over the side of the boat with a hint of reluctance as he responded to the question in Spanish. A brief conversation followed, where the dark stranger seemed to ask countless questions, and Warwick gave short replies, with the names Gabriel and Ottila coming up frequently. Sylvia didn’t understand the language but got the sense that Warwick was not exactly thrilled about the meeting; that the young man was both happy and confused to see him there; and that neither of them felt much regret as the distance slowly grew between the boats, parting ways with a farewell gesture, each taking a different branch of the river, which split just there.

For the first time, Warwick let Mark take his spot at the oar while he sat gazing into the clear depths below, as if there was a scene there that others couldn't see.[84]

"Who was the olive-skinned person with the nice eyes and foreign accent?" asked Mark, rowing leisurely.

"Gabriel André."

"Is he Italian?"

"No; he's Cuban."

"I forgot you tried that mix of Spain and Alabama. How was it?"

"As those kinds of climates always are for me—invigorating today, draining tomorrow."

"How long were you there?"

"3 months."

"I’m in a tropical mood, so let’s hear about it."

"There's nothing to say."

"I'll prove that with a quiz. Where did you stay?"

"In Havana."

"Sure, but with who?"

"Gabriel André."

"The dad of the saffron kid?"

Yes.

"Who was in the family?"

"Four people."

"Mark, leave Mr. Warwick be."

"As long as he answers, I will ask questions. Name the four people, Adam."

"Gabriel Sr., his wife Dolores, Gabriel Jr., and his sister Catalina."

"Ah! now we're making progress. Was Miss Catalina as beautiful as her brother?"

"Even more."

"You loved her, right?"

"I loved her."

"Wow! Look at the discoveries we make. He likes[85] it, I can tell by the sarcastic sparkle in his eye; so I keep going. She adored you, right?"

"She loved me."

"You'll go back and marry her?"

"No."

"Your depravity shocks me."

"Did I volunteer to discover it?"

"I want it now. You left this girl thinking that you loved her?"

"She knew I was into her."

"Was the goodbye tender?"

"From her side."

"Iceberg! She cried in your arms?"

"And gave me an orange."

"You loved it, right?"

"I ate it right away."

"What a lack of feeling! You promised to come back?"

Yes.

"But will it ever keep the promise?"

"I never break one."

"Still won't marry her?"

"Absolutely not."

"Ask how old the lady is, Mark?"

"How old are you, Warwick?"

"7."

Mark caught a huge crab in response and stayed where he fell, among the ruins of the castle in Spain that he had built with the limited materials given to him, while Warwick went back to his thoughts.

A drop of rain pulled Sylvia out of her thoughts about the imaginary portrait of the little Cuban girl, and looking[86] up at the sky, she realized that the playful wind had set up a practical joke for them in the form of a thunder-shower. They had a quick discussion and decided to keep rowing until they found a house where they could take shelter until the storm passed. They continued on, but the rain was quicker than they were, and they got thoroughly soaked before the sound of a dinner horn led them to safety. After landing, they made their way across the fields, a cheerful and damp group, toward a red farmhouse nestled under old elms, which had a welcoming vibe that promised good hospitality and a warm meal. This promise was soon kept by the energetic old woman who came out with a lively "Shoo!" for the speckled hens gathered on the porch, along with a warm welcome for the weary travelers.

"Sakes alive!" she exclaimed. "You're in quite a mess, aren’t you? Come right in and make yourselves at home. Abel, take the guys upstairs and find them anything dry you can get your hands on. Phebe, take care of this poor little creature and bring her down looking less like a drowned kitten. Nat, clean up your whittling mess so they can warm their feet when they come down; and, Cinthy, don’t serve up dinner just yet."

These directions were given with such enthusiastic explanation, and the old face radiated with such friendly energy, that the four agreed immediately, confident that the kind soul was enjoying serving them and finding something very appealing in the place, the people, and their own situation. Abel, a steady farmer at forty, followed his mother's instructions about the "men folks," while Phebe, a lively girl of sixteen, took Sylvia to her own room, eagerly offering her best.

As she dried off and got dressed, Sylvia made several[87] discoveries that added to the excitement and enjoyment of the adventure. A pretty dress was laid out on the bed in the small room, along with various decorations on the chair and table, hinting that a celebration was in the works; and a few questions revealed the details. Grandpa had seven sons and three daughters, all alive, all married, and all with plenty of kids. Grandpa's birthday was always marked by a family gathering; but today, being the fiftieth anniversary of his marriage, the various families had decided to celebrate with extra flair, and everyone was coming for a dinner, a dance, and a sing-along afterward. Upon hearing this news, Sylvia suggested leaving right away; but the grandmother and daughter protested, pointing out the still falling rain, the gloomy sky, the wet pile on the floor, and insisted that the visitors stay to enjoy the celebration and make it even more exciting with their presence.

Half promising what she truly wanted, Sylvia put on Phebe's second-best blue gingham dress, added a white apron to keep it nice, and completed her look with a pair of roomy shoes. She went downstairs to find her friends and share what was going on. They were all gathered in the neatest parlor and greeted her with a burst of laughter, as they were all dressed up. Abel was a stout man, and his clothes hung on Moor with a sad look; Mark had rejected them and, wanting to make an impression, grabbed an old uniform that made him look like a volunteer from 1812. Warwick, being taller, couldn't wear any of Abel's clothes; instead, grandpa, taller than any of his seven sons, provided him with a sober suit—roomy, square-flapped, and ancient—which suited him well, and along with his beard, gave him the curious look of a young patriarch. To Sylvia's relief, they all agreed to stay, trusting their own ability to figure out the best way to return the favor. After two days of solitude, they welcomed the adventure and all went out to dinner, ready to play their roles with enthusiasm.

The meal finished, Mark and Warwick went to help Abel with some outdoor arrangements. Asking Grandma to think of him as one of her own boys, Moor put on an apron and got to work with Sylvia, setting the long table for the upcoming food. True character can often be seen just as clearly in those who aren’t refined as in the refined; and the enthusiasm with which the newcomers engaged in the task at hand won over the family and created a friendly atmosphere right away. The old lady let them do as they pleased, admiring everything and repeatedly saying that her new helpers "outperformed her boys and girls in flavor and style." Sylvia decorated the table with simple flowers until it looked inviting even before any food was placed on it, and hung green branches around the room with candles here and there to add a festive glow. Moor rolled in a large cheese from the dairy, brought milk pans without any trouble, arranged the dishes, and made Nat stick by him with secret snacks and playful suggestions. Meanwhile, Phebe was darting around, completely caught up in the excitement, and Grandma stood in her pantry like a culinary general, waving a big knife like a baton as she gave orders and managed her team, the busiest and happiest of them all.

When he was done, Moor took off his apron and went to join Mark. Sylvia helped Phebe get ready, and then she sat down to support Nat through the tough half hour before, as he put it, "the party arrived." The twelve-year-old boy was a cripple, one of those family blessings that, despite being a challenge, keep many hearts connected through shared love and compassion. He was a cheerful kid, always chirping like a cricket on the hearth while he carved or shaped bits of wood into useful or decorative items for those willing to buy them, saving up the money like a little miser for someone even more helpless than himself.

"What are these, Nat?" asked Sylvia, her curiosity piqued. Small people often found themselves drawn to sincerity like this.

"They're spoons—apostle spoons, they call them. You see, I have a cousin who reads a lot, and one day he says to me, 'Nat, I saw something in a book about a set of spoons with an apostle’s head on each of them; you should make some and they'll sell, I bet.' So I took my grandpa's Bible, found the pictures of the apostles, and worked and worked until I got the faces right; and now it’s great because they do sell, and I’m saving up a lot. It’s not for me, you know, but for my mom, because she’s worse off than I am."

"Is she unwell, Nat?"

"Oh, isn't she! She hasn't stood up in nine years. We were in a wagon that flipped over when I was three. It did something to my legs, but it broke her back, and now she's not useful for anything except to pet me and keep us all kind of steady, you know. Haven't you seen her? Don't you want to?"

"Would she be into it?"

"She likes seeing people and asked about you at dinner, so I think you should go visit her. Look, you like those spoons, and I’m going to give you one; I’d give you all of them if they weren't already promised. I can make one more in time, so just pick whichever you want because I like you and want you to remember me."

Sylvia chose Saint John because it reminded her of Moor, she thought; she ordered and paid for a whole set, and quietly decided to send tools and rare woods to the little artist so he could help his mother in his own charming way. Then Nat picked up his crutches and hopped nimbly ahead of her to the room, where a plain, serene-faced woman was knitting, wearing her best cap, with her clean handkerchief and large green fan laid out on the coverlet. This was clearly the best room in the house; and as Sylvia talked to the invalid, she noticed many signs of that refinement that comes from love. Nothing seemed too good for "daughter Patience;" birds, books, flowers, and pictures were abundant here, though they were nowhere else. Two easy chairs next to the bed indicated where the old folks often sat; Abel's home corner was there by the antique desk filled with farming literature and samples of seeds; Phebe's work basket was in the window; Nat's lathe occupied the sunniest spot; and from the spotless carpet to the canary's fresh water glass, everything was beautifully tidy, for love and hard work were the hands that cared for the helpless woman and asked for no payment but her comfort.

Sylvia entertained her new friends a lot because she noticed that neither the mother nor the son had any complaints or sympathy to ask for. She made an effort to give them what they both needed and kept them laughing with a lively story about her journey and its mishaps.

"Ain't she something, mom?" was Nat's honest remark when the story finished, and he popped out red and shiny[91] from the pillows where he had tucked himself away with bursts of excitement.

"She's really kind, dear, to entertain two homebodies like you and me, who hardly notice what's happening outside these four walls. You have a cheerful spirit, miss, and I hope you keep it for all your days, because it's a precious thing to have."

"I think you have something better, a happy one," said Sylvia, as the woman looked at her without any sign of envy or regret.

"I should have; nine years on a person's back can teach a lot of things that are worth knowing. I've learned patience pretty well, I guess, and contentment isn't far off, because even though it sometimes seems really long to look forward to, maybe nine more years lying here, I just remember it could have been worse, and if I don't do much now, there's all eternity ahead."

Something about the way the woman carried herself caught Sylvia's attention as she watched her gently tapping out a tune on the paper, her calm eyes focused on the light. The look, the tone, the cheerful acceptance on that ordinary face had spoken to the girl more than many sermons ever could. She leaned down and kissed it, saying softly—

"I will remember this."

"Hooray! There they are; I hear Ben!"

And off went Nat, quickly getting wrapped up in the hugs of a crowd of relatives who started to arrive one after another. Old and young, big and small, rich and poor, whether they came with full hands or just a little something to share, everyone was welcomed the same. Grandpa hugged them all, Grandma kissed them, Uncle Abel shook them until they could barely catch their breath, Aunt Patience greeted them warmly, and Phebe and Nat spun around with joy until the house felt like a buzzing hive full of happy and loving bees. At first, the newcomers hung back, but Phebe shared their story with so many flattering details of her own that the family circle opened wide and welcomed them right in.

Sylvia was captivated by the wildness of babies, and leaving the others to their own activities, she followed the caretakers to "Patience's room." She surrendered to the joyful domination of the little rulers, who climbed over her as she sat on the floor, pulling at her hair, poking at her eyes, showering her with wet kisses, and creating a delightful chatter that was more enjoyable to her than the conversations of the proud moms who kindly watched her admiration of their children's skills.

The young people went to play in the barn; the men, armed with umbrellas, turned out en masse to check out the farm and livestock, sharing thoughts over pig pens and garden gates. But Sylvia stayed where she was, soaking in a scene that filled her with a bittersweet mix of pain and pleasure. Each baby was placed on grandma's lap, where its small traits, flaws, illnesses, and achievements were discussed, its beauty examined, its strength tested, and the family’s judgment delivered as it was cradled, kissed, and blessed by the kind old heart that had space for every worry and joy of those who called her mother. It was a moment the girl would never forget, as she was ready to absorb it. Her best lessons didn’t come from books, and she learned one then by witnessing the greatest success of a woman’s life while watching this happy grandmother surrounded by fresh faces, daughterly voices echoing good wishes, and the bounty of half a century of married life beautifully held in her arms.

The smell of coffee and memories of Cynthia's[93] cheerful antics during these times caused the mothers to break up their gathering. The babies were taken away to cozy up between blankets until needed. The women unpacked baskets, fussed over teapots, and chatted cheerfully as they laid out a table filled with stacks of cake, rows of pies, heaps of jelly, piles of bread, and generous servings of butter; every kind of food, from baked beans to wedding cake, found a spot on that splendid spread.

Fearing to be in the way, Sylvia left for the barn, where she found her group in a wild uproar; because the offspring had been just as lively as the parent tree, and about forty young immortals were in full chaos. The shy ones were nesting with the hens in distant lofts and on beams; the bold were flirting or playing in the bright light of day; the boys were cheering, the girls were screaming, all bubbling over as if their energy had reached a breaking point and had to burst out in noise. Mark was in his element, introducing all kinds of new games, the liveliest of the old, and keeping the fun going strong; for there were plenty of rosy, bright-eyed girls, and the old uniform was universally liked. Warwick had a group of boys around him, captivated by the tricks he was creating with a knife, a stick, and string; and Moor had a rival group of little girls, breathless from the stories he told. One was on each knee, two at each side, four in a row on the hay at his feet, and the boldest one had an arm around his neck and a curly head on his shoulder, because Uncle Abel's clothes seemed to give him instant access to their trust. Sylvia joined this group and enjoyed their quiet fun with as much childlike delight as any of them, while the happy noise continued around her.[94]

The sound of the horn had everyone in the barn rushing into the house like a flock of hungry chickens, where, by some magic known only to mothers of big families, everyone was packed tightly around the table, and the feast began. This was no simple stand-up snack of crackers and tea; it was a full sit-down supper, and everyone settled in with smiling satisfaction, ready to put their appetites to good use. A group of half-grown girls lined up behind Grandma as waitstaff; Sylvia insisted on being one of them and proved to be a capable helper, even though she was a bit confused by the food chaos around her. Babies were munching on pickles, little boys were pouncing on pie with lightning speed, women were drowning in tea, and the men, so to speak, swept over the table like a horde of locusts, while the host and hostess exchanged proud smiles as they looked at each other and their hearty kids, a beautiful sight to behold.

"That Mr. Wackett isn’t eating hardly anything; he just sits there looking around a bit confused. Go and get him to eat something, or I won’t enjoy my meal at all," said grandma, as the girl came in with an empty cup.

"He is loving it wholeheartedly, ma'am, because we don't see such amazing sights every day. I'll get him something he enjoys and make him eat it."

"Sakes alive! Are you Miss Wackett? I had no idea, you look so young."

"Neither do I; we are just friends, ma'am."

"Oh!" The single word was very expressive as the old lady gave a knowing nod to the teapot, into which she was currently looking. Sylvia walked[95] away, wondering why people were always thinking and saying things like that.

As she paused behind Warwick's chair with a glass of cream and a slice of brown bread, he looked up at her with his most neutral expression, though there was a hint of regret in his voice.

"This is a sight worth living eighty tough years to witness, and I envy that old couple like I've never envied anyone before. Raising ten good kids, bringing ten useful men and women into the world, and giving them the health and strength to find their own way, as these honest people will do, is a greater achievement for the Lord than winning a battle or running a state. Here’s to their honor. Join me in raising a glass."

He brought the glass to her lips, drank what she didn't finish, and then stood up, putting her in his seat with a commanding presence that few could refuse.

"You don't think about yourself and are doing too much; sit here for a bit, and let me take a few steps for you."

He served her, and standing behind her, leaned in now and then to speak, still wearing that gentle expression on his face, which was rarely touched by the softer feelings that were buried deep in his heart; for he had never felt so alone.

All things must come to an end, even a family feast, and by the time the last boy's buttons unambiguously declared, 'This is as far as you go,' everyone said they were satisfied, and there was a general movement to get up. The extra guests were gathered in the parlor and bedrooms, while a few energetic helpers cleaned up. With a lot of clattering dishes and waving towels, they left Grandma's[96] spotless as always. It was dark by the time everything was done, so the kitchen was tidied up, candles were lit, Patience's door was opened, and little Nat set up an impromptu orchestra made from a table and a chair, where the first squeak of his fiddle announced that the dance had started.

Everybody danced; the babies piled on Patience's bed, or penned behind chairs, sprawled and pranced in an unsteady imitation of their elders. Clumsy farmers, stiff from labor, remembered their younger days and moved energetically as they swung their wives around with a gentle pressure of the hardworking hands that had been together for so long. Small pairs walked seriously through the dance, or played wildly in a big jumble of arms and legs. Brave cousins kissed pretty cousins at thrilling moments, and were not scolded. Mark drove several of these budding romantics to the brink of despair with his devotion to the prettiest girls and the way he performed incredible moves before their admiring eyes; Moor escorted the least attractive and plainest girls with a respect that made their ordinary faces light up, making them forget their plain skirts. Warwick tossed his five-year-old partner through the air in a way that left her speechless with joy; and Sylvia danced like she had never danced before. With sticky-fingered boys, drowsy from too much food but determined to last; with rough-faced men who offered her fatherly compliments; with slick young men who blushed with that fair lady's hand in their big brown ones, and one ambitious lad who shared with her his burning desire to run a sawmill and marry a girl with black eyes and blonde hair. Meanwhile, perched up high, Nat bowed as his pale face flushed, until all hearts warmed, and all feet moved to the good old tunes which[97] have brought so much health to human bodies and so much joy to human souls.

At nine o'clock, the last dance began. In the long kitchen, two breathless lines formed; grandpa and grandma at the front, the youngest grandkids at the back, with fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, and cousins in between. Meanwhile, the babies still awake bounced along with enthusiasm as Nat started playing the Virginia Reel, and the lively old couple kicked things off just as spiritedly as the young ones who rushed to join them. Off they went, grandpa's white hair blowing in the breeze, grandma's fancy cap askew with excitement, as they strolled down the center, finishing with a kiss when their melodic journey ended, surrounded by loud applause from those who saw this as the highlight of the day.

When everyone had their turn and spun around until they were dizzy, there was a brief pause, with snacks for those who could still enjoy them. Then Phebe showed up with a bunch of books, and everyone got comfortable for the family "sing."

Sylvia had heard a lot of beautiful music, but nothing ever touched her like this. Though often out of tune, it was full of life, with an emotional depth that added sweetness to even the roughest song, and was often more appealing than the fanciest embellishments or perfect performances. Everyone sang with all their energy, just like they had danced; there were loud kids, soft-voiced girls, lullaby-singing mothers, gruff boys, and strong-voiced men; the older couple sang quaveringly, and a few tireless babies cooed from their little playpens. Songs, ballads, funny tunes, popular hits, and hymns came one after another. And when they finished with that song which should be considered sacred music[98] for its associations, standing hand in hand around the room with the golden bride and groom in the middle, singing "Home," Sylvia leaned against her brother with misty eyes and a heart too full to sing.

Still standing there when the last note had soared up and faded away, the old man folded his hands and started to pray. It was an old-fashioned prayer, unlike anything the girl had ever heard from the Bishop; it was ungrammatical, clumsy, and long. It felt like a quiet conversation with God, honestly admitting flaws, childlike in asking for guidance, and filled with gratitude for all the good things, especially the love of children. As if their deep connection made them close, this human father turned to the Divine, just as these sons and daughters turned to him—free to ask, sure of getting an answer—as they laid down all their struggles, blessings, worries, and burdens, submitting the work of eighty years to him. The only sounds in the room were the old man’s voice, often shaky with emotion and age, the coo of a dreamy baby, or the quiet sob of a mother with empty arms, as he stood there, rugged and white-haired like the granite hills, with his old wife by his side, surrounded by a circle of sons and daughters, and in every heart was the thought that while the first wedding was meant for time, this golden one at eighty was for eternity.

While Sylvia watched and listened, she felt a genuine sense of devotion wash over her; the beauty and value of prayer became clear to her through the heartfelt words of that uneducated man, and for the first time, she truly sensed the closeness and warmth of the Universal Father, whom she had been taught to fear yet longed to love.

"Now, my kids, you should go before the little ones[99] get worn out," Grandpa said with warmth. "Your mother and I can’t thank you enough for the gifts you’ve brought us, the thoughtful wishes you’ve given us, and the pride and comfort you’ve always been to us. I’m not good at speeches, so I won’t make one, but I will say that if any trouble comes your way, remember your mother is here to help you through it; if you experience any loss, know that your father’s house is yours as long as it stands. May the Lord bless and keep us all."

"Three cheers for Grandpa and Grandma!" shouted a six-foot grandson as a way to release a mix of unmanly feelings, and three loud cheers made the rafters shake, scared the oldest resident of the rat-infested attic, and quickly woke all the babies.

Then the goodbyes started, with a rush of misplaced baskets, pails, and bundles; the sorting of little ones too tired to realize or care what happened to them; the motherly clucking and fatherly calls for Kitty, Cy, Ben, Bill, or Mary Ann; jamming into vehicles with annoyed horses not used to being out so late; the final goodbyes, the sound of wheels rolling away as one by one the joyful groups left, and calm descended on the household for another year.

"I swear, I’ve never had such a totally great time since I was born. Ab'ram, you look like you're about to collapse, and so do I; let’s sit and chat with Patience before we go to bed."

The elderly couple settled into their chairs, and while they sat there side by side, recalling that she hadn’t given a gift, Sylvia snuck up behind them. Using her beautiful voice on the simple melody, she sang the perfect song for the moment—“John Anderson my Jo.” It was all too much for grandma,[100] her heart overflowing, and without caring about her beloved cap, she rested her head on her “John’s” shoulder, exclaiming through her tears—

"That's the top of the hull, and I can't take anymore tonight. Ab'ram, can I borrow your handkerchief? I don't know where mine is, and my face is drenched."

Before the red bandana had softly done its job in Grandpa's hand, Sylvia signaled her friends to leave the room. She pointed out the clear moonlit night that followed the storm and suggested they both keep up appearances and enjoy a unique experience by floating home instead of sleeping. The tide that had made it tough to get there would carry them quickly back, making it easy to retrace the journey they'd taken three days to complete.

The happy buzz of the evening was still in the air, and everyone agreed that the plan was a perfect ending to their trip. The elderly woman strongly disagreed, but the younger ones convinced her otherwise. After fixing up their torn clothes, they thanked the welcoming family and left a note of appreciation under Nat's pillow before setting off on their bright journey again.

All night, Sylvia lay under the branches her brother had arranged to protect her from the dew, listening to the gentle sounds around her: the chirping of a restless bird, the bleating of a late lamb, and the soft babbling of a brook like a baby softly snoring. Throughout the night, she gazed at the shifting landscapes, shimmering green or dark with sleepy shadows, and tracked the moon as it peacefully moved across the sky. When it set, she wrapped her cloak around herself, rested her head on her arm, and drifted from wakefulness into a sleeping dream.[101]

A thick mist surrounded her when she woke up. Above, the sun shone faintly, below the waves of the sea rolled in and out, all around her was the city's sporadic buzz, and far behind her lay the green wilderness where she had lived and learned so much. Slowly, the fog cleared, the sun shone brilliantly on the sea, and they sailed out into the open bay with the flag waving in the morning breeze. But still glancing back, the girl watched the misty barrier that stood between her and the enchanted river, and with a longing heart, she admitted how sweet that brief experience had been, for even though she had not yet realized it, like

"I never really understood you, Sylvia; and this last[102] month you’ve been a complete mystery to me."

With her rocking chair in full swing, a needle paused in mid-air and a thoughtful look on her face, Miss Yule had been watching her sister for ten minutes as she sat with her work at her feet, her hands resting in her lap, and her eyes dreamily staring into space.

"I've always been to myself, Prue, and I'm even more so now," Sylvia replied, coming out of her daydream with a smile that showed it had been a nice one.

"There has to be a reason for this big change in you. Come on, tell me, dear."

With a nurturing gesture, Miss Yule pulled the girl onto her lap, brushed back her bright hair, and gazed into the face that was so openly turned toward hers. Throughout all the years they had spent together, the older sister had never before seen the expression that now graced the younger's face. There was a vague anticipation in her eyes, an unnamed contentment that softened her smile, and a beautiful calm that replaced the fluctuating enthusiasm, boredom, and sadness that had often clouded her features and made them such a puzzle. Miss Yule couldn’t decipher the reason for the change, but she felt its fresh appeal; Sylvia couldn’t put it into words, though she was deeply affected by it; [103] and for a moment, the sisters studied each other’s faces, wondering why they both seemed different. Then Prue, who never spent much time on pondering things, shook her head and repeated—

"I don't get it, but it must be true, because you've changed so much for the better. Ever since that crazy trip up the river, you've become more calm, lovable, and cheerful, and I'm really starting to hope that you'll turn into someone like everyone else."

"I only know that I'm happy, Prue. I can't say why; I just know that I rarely feel that old dissatisfaction and restlessness anymore. Everything seems nice to me, everyone feels friendly, and life is starting to feel both sweet and meaningful. It's probably just one of my moods; but I'm thankful for it and hope it lasts."

So sincerely she spoke, so happily she smiled, that Miss Yule appreciated the vibe and repeated Sylvia's wish, exclaiming in the next breath, with a burst of inspiration—

"My dear, I've got it! You're growing up."

"I believe I am. You tried to turn me into a woman when I was sixteen, but it just wasn't possible until the right moment arrived. That crazy trip up the river, as you put it, did more for me than I can explain, and even when I appeared most like a child, I was actually learning how to be a woman."

"Well, my dear, keep doing what you're doing, and I’ll be more than happy. What fun plans do you have for tonight? Mark and his friends keep you busy with their riding, rowing, and wandering trips, and if it didn’t suit you so well, I would really like some peace and quiet after a month of activity."

"They're just coming up like always, and that reminds me that I need to go get dressed."[104]

"There’s another change, Sylvia. You never used to care about what you wore or how you looked, no matter how much time and effort I put into you and your wardrobe. Now you do care, and it makes me so happy to see you always dressed so charmingly and looking your best," said Miss Yule, with the satisfaction of a woman who truly believed in fashion as well as all the other refinements and expectations of stylish living.

"Am I really like that, Prue?" asked Sylvia, stopping in the doorway with a shy but longing look.

"Anything else, dear?"

"Attractive?"

"Always has been for me; and now I believe everyone finds you very appealing because you make an effort to please, and it seems you do so wonderfully."

Sylvia had never asked that question before, hadn’t seemed to know or care, and couldn’t have picked a better time for her honest question than now. The answer seemed to please her, and with a smile reflecting her cheerful anticipation, she went off to get ready in the dim light, which showed just how little the desire to make herself attractive had affected her so far.

The September moon was bright and shining over the garden, lawn, and sea when she heard voices calling her down. At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped, looking disappointed, because only one hat was on the hall table, and a quick glance showed her that there was only one guest with Mark and Prue. She wandered uncertainly through the breezy hall, peeked out of both open doors, sung a little to herself, but stopped mid-lyric, and, almost on impulse, stepped out into the warm moonlight, forgetting about her uncovered head or the dampness that might ruin the white hem of her dress. Halfway down the avenue, she paused in front of a shady spot and looked in. The evergreens surrounding it made the seat seem even darker to her eyes, which were used to the bright light outside, and seeing a familiar figure sitting with its head in its hands, Sylvia leaned in, saying with a tender affection—

"Why is my romantic dad here?"

The sense of touch was faster than sight, and with a gasp of surprise, she pulled back before Warwick could respond—

"It’s not the old man, but the young one, who is dating here."

"I’m sorry! We’ve been waiting for you; what thought is so delightful that you forgot about us all?"

Sylvia was a bit surprised; otherwise, she wouldn't have asked such a straightforward question. But Warwick often asked much more direct ones, always told the blunt truth without hesitation or delay, and immediately responded—

"The thought of the woman I want to marry."

Sylvia stood quietly for a moment, focused on arranging the delicate spray of hop-bells she had just picked from the vine, creating a leafy frame around her graceful figure as she stood with her arms raised behind the arch. When she finally spoke, it was as she walked toward the house—

"It’s too beautiful a night to stay inside, but Prue is waiting for me, and Mark wants to plan with you about our ride tomorrow. Should we go together?"

She waved him over, and he stepped out of the shadows, revealing an expression she had never seen before. His face was flushed, his eyes restless, and his demeanor was eager yet[106] restrained. She had witnessed his intellectual excitement many times, but never his emotional side until now. There was something unpredictable yet warm in this new mood that drew her in because it resembled her own feelings. However, with a natural tact just like her empathy, she gave no indication of this, except for the attentive look she directed at him as the moonlight illuminated him in its glory. He met her gaze, seemed to understand it correctly, but didn’t respond to her unspoken question; instead, he paused and asked abruptly—

"Should a hasty promise be seen as binding when it risks ruining one's peace?"

Sylvia thought for a moment before she replied slowly—

"If the promise was given willingly, with no wrong done by keeping it, and it only affected my own peace, I would say yes."

Still pausing, he looked down at her with that restless glance as she looked up with her steady one, and with the same concern he asked—

"Would you keep a promise like that, even if it meant giving up something more precious to you than your own life?"

She thought about it again and looked up once more, responding with the sincerity he had taught her—

"It might be unwise, but if the sacrifice isn't one of principle or something I should value more than life, I think I should keep the promise as faithfully as an Indian keeps a vow of vengeance."

As she talked, it looked like a memory hit Warwick out of nowhere. The color drained from his face, the spark in his eyes faded, and a serious calm washed over him as he muttered quietly to himself, taking a step forward as if he wanted to escape some pain[107]—

"It’s best this way; for his sake, I’ll leave everything to time."

Sylvia saw his lips move, but she didn't hear anything until he spoke with a seriousness that was almost somber—

"I think you would; so, be careful about how you tie yourself down with those kinds of words. Let’s go in."

They left; Warwick headed to the living room, but Sylvia quickly ran upstairs for the Berlin wools, which, despite the heat and the inevitable staining of her fingers, needed to be wound that night as agreed, because she honored a small promise just as seriously as she would have honored a bigger one.

"What have you been doing to give yourself such a happy look, Sylvia?" Mark asked as she walked in.

"Feasting my eyes on beautiful colors. Doesn’t that look like a folded rainbow?" she replied, setting her vibrant load on the table where Warwick was examining a broken reel, and Prue was focused on getting a carriage blanket started.

"Come on, Sylvia, I'll be ready for the first shade shortly," she said, clicking her impressive needles together. "Is that beyond repair, Mr. Warwick?"

"Yeah, without better tools than a knife, two pins, and a needle."

"Then you need to put the yarn on a chair, Sylvia. Try not to tangle it, and spread your handkerchief on your lap, because that maroon color will stain badly. Now don’t talk to me, because I need to count my stitches."

Sylvia started to wind the yarn with a quick skill that felt as natural to her hands as the little gestures that made her movements nice to watch. Warwick never searched through work-baskets, gossiped, or offered compliments just to pass the time. If there wasn’t any small task for them to do, he kept his hands occupied and, if there wasn’t anything to say that felt fitting, he showed he understood the value of silence and sat with those watchful eyes of his fixed on whatever caught their attention. At that moment, the focus was on a bright ribbon slipping around the back of the chair, moving so quickly it soon got tangled, but there was no aid until patient fingers smoothed it out and rewound it. Then, with the look of someone who has made up their mind, he turned, positioned himself directly in front of Sylvia, and extended his hands.

"Here’s a reel that won’t tangle or break your threads. Will you use it?"

"Yes, thank you, and in return, I'll spin your color first."

"What's my color?"

"This bold red, vibrant, resilient, and warrior-like, just like you."

"You're right."

"I thought so; Mr. Moor likes blue, and I like violet."

"Blue and red make violet," Mark shouted from his corner, hearing the word "color," even though he was focused on a sketch for a particular fair girl, Jessie Hope.

Moor was with Mr. Yule in his office, Prue mentally wrapped in her blanket, and when Sylvia got into a creative argument with her brother, Warwick became lost in deep thought.

With the pride of a once-deceived man, he had shut his heart off from women, deciding that he wouldn’t let a second defeat leave him struggling with self-doubt and mistrust, which is harder for a generous person to bear than the pain of their own wounds. He still had to learn that the shadow of love hints at its light, and that those deprived of the love that no one can truly live without, crave it even more intensely. Recently, he had been discovering this, as a longing stronger than his own strong will overcame him. He tried to deny and silence it; he attacked it with logic, ignored it, and dismissed it with scorn. But just when he thought it was gone, the longing surged back, loud and insistent, undoing all his work. For the first time, this free spirit felt the grip of need, admitting that there are some things his own strength couldn't provide, and realized that no one can live solely on high aspirations without suffering for the essential warmth of affection. A month ago, he would have scoffed at the hope that was now so precious to him. But gradually, the influences of domestic life had softened and captured him. Solitude felt empty, and wandering had lost its appeal; his life seemed cold and bare, for although dedicated to noble goals, it lacked the social sacrifices, concerns, and joys that nurture kindness and enrich character. An intense desire to experience the richness that brought so much joy to others swept over him tonight, as it often had while enjoying the comforts of this home, where he had lingered for so long. But along with that desire came a memory that held him back better than his promise ever could. He saw what others hadn’t realized yet, and by following the code of honor that guides a true gentleman, he loved his friend more than himself and kept quiet.

The last skein arrived, and as she wound it, Sylvia's gaze unconsciously shifted from the strong hands to the face above them, lingering there, as the intense gaze was turned away, and an unusual softness inspired confidence, replacing his usual commanding presence. His silence unsettled her, and with a curious yet respectful scrutiny, she examined his face as she had never done before. She found it filled with noble seriousness and warmth; honesty and courage were evident in the lines of his mouth, kindness and intelligence in the broad curve of his forehead, passion and energy in the fire of his eyes, and on every feature, the mark of genuine manhood that no artifice could imitate. Focused on uncovering the secret behind his influence over everyone around him, Sylvia completely lost track of herself when suddenly Warwick's eyes locked onto hers. What magic resided in them she couldn’t describe, for no human gaze had ever cast such a sudden light over her. It wasn't admiration, as it didn’t agitate her; nor was it boldness, as it didn’t embarrass her; but something that sent warmth coursing through her blood and nerves, filling her with a joyful surrender to a power that was both absolute and gentle, leading her to turn her innocent face openly to his gaze, allowing him to see a feeling for which she had yet to find a name.

It lasted only a moment; yet in that moment, each saw the other’s heart, and both turned a new page in the story of their lives. Sylvia's gaze fell first, but there was no blush, no sign of anger or confusion, just a thoughtful silence that lasted until the last violet thread slipped from his fingers, and she said almost wistfully—

"This is the end."

"Yes, this is it."

As Warwick repeated the words, he suddenly stood up and went to talk with Mark, whose sketch was finished. Sylvia sat for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, completely unaware of her surroundings. Soon, she seemed to light up with an inner fire; her face and forehead flushed with intensity, her eyes sparkled, and her lips quivered with the quickness of her breath. Then a wave of panic seemed to take hold of her, as she quietly slipped away, hurrying to her room. Covering her face as if to hide it even from herself, she whispered to her overwhelmed heart, her quick tears contradicting her words—

"Now I understand why I feel happy!"

How long she lay there crying and smiling in the moonlight, she never knew. Her sister's voice interrupted the first love dream she had ever created for herself, and she went downstairs to say goodnight to her friends. The hall was lit only by the moon, and in the dim shadows where she stood, no one noticed the signs of that midsummer shower on her cheeks or the gentle turmoil in her eyes. But for the first time, Moor felt her hand trembling in his and welcomed the encouraging sign.

Being an old-fashioned gentleman, Mr. Yule kept the nice tradition of handshaking in his family, which adds warmth to the morning and evening greetings of a household. Moor liked it and embraced it; Warwick had never done so, but that night he shook hands with Prue and Mark, showing a genuinely friendly expression, and Sylvia felt her own hand held in a warm, lingering grasp, even though he only said "goodbye!" Then they left; but while the three paused at the door, captivated by the beauty of the night, Warwick's voice floated back to them on the wind, singing the song that Sylvia loved. All down the avenue and far along the winding road, they followed his progress until the melody faded into the distance, leaving only the echo of the song to connect them to the singer.

When evening came again, Sylvia waited on the lawn to meet in the dark, as love made her feel very shy. But Moor came alone, and his first words were,

"Comfort me, Sylvia, Adam is gone. He left as suddenly as he arrived, and when I woke up this morning, a note was at my door, but my friend was not there."[112]

She whispered some typical regret, but there was a sharp pain in her heart until she remembered Warwick's question, asked right where she was standing. She needed some comfort, and she held onto this one hopeful thought inside her—

"He made a promise, went to get out of it, and will return to tell me what he saw last night. He's so genuine that I will trust him and wait."

She waited, but week after week passed and Warwick didn’t show up.

Whoever is only interested in events and action in a book[113] should probably skip this chapter and keep reading; but those who are interested in character development will find the key to Sylvia's here.

John Yule could have been a poet, painter, or philanthropist because he was gifted in many ways. He was a successful merchant who only wanted to leave a fortune for his children and erase the painful memories of his past. At the start of his life, he stumbled and fell; as he hesitated there, waiting for the next step to reveal itself, fate tested him and found him lacking. On one side, Poverty reached out to the aspiring young man with her paltry offerings, but he wasn’t wise enough to recognize the strength hidden beneath her tough exterior, nor brave enough to embrace the tough yet valuable lessons that work, necessity, and patience teach, which ultimately lead to true success for those who serve and endure. On the other side, Wealth enticed him with many temptations, and, drowning out his conscience, he succumbed to the lure and destroyed his better self.

A loveless marriage was the price he paid for his ambition; not a steep one, he thought, until time showed him that anyone who compromises the integrity of their own soul by breaking the fundamental laws of life, even by the slightest margin, brings upon themselves and their heirs the inevitable consequences that define their value and keep them sacred. The connection that tied and weighed down the unhappy couple, worn thin by constant friction, eventually broke. In the solemn pause that death brought to his hectic life, he was confronted with those two haunting figures that eventually visit us all, saying with accusatory voices, “This is what I could have been,” and “This is what I am.” Then he realized the failure of his life. At fifty, he found himself poorer than when he made his fateful choice; for the years that had given him wealth, status, and children, had also stripped him of his youth, self-respect, and many gifts whose value was amplified by their absence. He tried to make amends for the mistake he had so late acknowledged, but found it impossible to undo it when regret, bitter efforts, and age left him powerless to reclaim the rich legacy wasted in his youth.

If there was ever a person who deserved punishment for their own mistakes, it was John Yule. The punishment was as subtle as the wrongdoing itself; because in the children growing up around him, every lost hope, neglected talent, and forgotten dream seemed to come back to life; yet each one carried the heavy mark of imperfection, making them clear examples of the significant law he had broken in his youth.

In Prudence, as she matured into a woman, he recognized his own practical skills and talents, nothing more. She seemed like a living embodiment of the years spent struggling for profit, power, and social standing; the minor concerns that wear on the spirit, the money-driven plans that squander a life, the superficial societal norms, trivialities, and anxieties that diminish true character. He saw all of this in his daughter, and with a sense of sad patience, endured the daily challenges posed by an overly energetic, overly worried, loving yet extremely ordinary child.[115]

In Mark, he saw his passion for beauty, his love of poetry, and his respect for genius, virtue, and heroism. But there was still a subtle decline. This son, although determined, struggled to follow through; some hidden source of strength was missing, and the shadow of that earlier defeat dampened the energy needed for success. Mark loved poetry and "wrote in verse because the words flowed;" but whether his work was tragic, tender, or devout, each piece contained enough of the divine spark to bring it to life, but not enough to give it the intensity that could make a line unforgettable, and every song was a sweet lament for the higher masterpieces that could have been. He loved art and dedicated himself to it; but despite studying all forms of beauty, he never grasped its essence, and each effort left him with tantalizing glimpses of the ideal he could not attain. He cherished the truth, but grand ideas rarely turned into noble actions; because when the moment came, he was never prepared, and disappointment was his constant companion. A sad fate for the son, and an even sadder one for the father who had passed it down from the irretrievable past.

In Sylvia, he saw a mysterious mix of the two natures that had given her life, even though she was born during a time when the divide between a regretful husband and a sad wife was at its widest. It was as if indignant Nature was rebelling against the violation of her most sacred connections, gifting the child with both the strengths and weaknesses of each parent. From her father, she inherited pride, intelligence, and determination; from her mother, passion, creativity, and the deep sadness of a woman stripped of her brightest hope. These conflicting traits, along with all their hopes, qualities, and contradictions, created a nature that was both beautiful and flawed; ambitious yet not independent; sensitive yet not perceptive. These two influences dominated her soul and body, fighting against each other, making Sylvia a mystery to herself and her life a series of changing emotions.

A wise and caring mother would have understood her unspoken needs, fulfilled her unclear desires, and through the most powerful form of love given to humanity, helped her become who she could have been. But Sylvia had never experienced motherly love, as her life was born through death; the only inheritance she received was a fragile grip on life, an ongoing longing for love, and the haunting memory of a tragedy that escaped from the pale lips that grew cold against her baby cheek, the cry, "Free at last, thank God for that!"

Prudence couldn't fill the void, even though the well-meaning housewife did her best. Neither sister really understood the other, and each unintentionally troubled the other through their love. Prue unknowingly annoyed Sylvia, while Sylvia unintentionally stunned Prue, and they moved along together, each trying to do the right thing but taking completely opposite approaches to achieve it. Mark summed them up perfectly when he said, "Sylvia decorates the house with flowers, but Prudence follows her around with a dustpan."

Mr. Yule was now a serious, sad man who, after denying himself once, made it his life's goal to always say "Yes" to his children. But even though he fulfilled all their wishes, it felt like he had lost his ability to connect with them. He was more like a quiet guest than the head of the household. His children loved him, but they never really leaned on him, because an invisible yet strong barrier stood between them—an instinctive resistance against the injustice done to their deceased mother, something they weren't aware of but that mattered deeply to him.

Mark had been away for years, and even though the brother and sister were deeply bonded, their differences in sexuality, interests, and ambitions created a gap between them. Sylvia felt alone even in what appeared to be a lively home. Unhappy with herself, she tried to shape her life into what it should be, driven by her passionate and ambitious nature. Through all her experiences—whether sweet or sour, in moments of joy and in times of failure—a genuine longing for the best and greatest happiness was the little flame of her spirit that never dimmed or went out.

She had never really experienced friendship in its true sense, because next to love, it’s the most misused word. She had called many people "friends," but she was still unaware of that feeling, which is cooler than passion, yet warmer than respect—more fair and generous than either. It acknowledges a kindred spirit in someone else, and by claiming that bond, it keeps it sacred with a wise boundary that is to friendship what the purple bloom is to the grape: a charm that, once lost, can never be regained. She desired love but also feared it, knowing her own passionate nature. When love finally came to her, turning that brief escape into a pivotal moment in her life, she gave herself to it completely. Before that, she had taken joy in a quieter kind of happiness and thought she had found her friend in the neighbor who had returned to his old place after a long absence.

Nature had done a lot for Geoffrey Moor, but the wise mother also gave him those teachers who often teach her dearest children tough lessons. Five years spent caring for a sister, who, through the harsh discipline of pain, was preparing her gentle soul for heaven, had given him an experience that very few young men get. This brotherly devotion turned out to be a blessing in disguise; it kept him from ruining his youth, and the companionship of the helpless person he loved constantly inspired the best and sweetest parts of him. One duty, faithfully fulfilled, marked his character with integrity and gave him the insight to see, at thirty, the rich rewards he had received for the ambitions he silently set aside at twenty-five. When his long watch was over, he looked into the world to find his place again. But the old desires were gone, the old temptations had lost their appeal, and as he waited for time to reveal what good work he should pursue, no longing was stronger than his desire for a home where he could bless and be blessed by living a virtuous and happy life.

Sylvia quickly sensed the power and beauty of nature, and remembering how well he had helped with a physical problem, often gazed into the face whose calmness was a constant reminder, wishing to ask him to assist and heal the mental struggles that troubled and weighed her down. Moor soon understood the true loneliness of the girl, interpreted the expression of her longing eyes, felt that he could support her, and encouraged her trust with the warm eagerness with which he responded to her slightest gesture.

But while he was there, he learned to love her, because Sylvia, humble in her own way and guarded by the secret feelings she held inside, openly showed her affection without worrying about misunderstandings or consequences. Unaware that her spontaneous expressions made her even more appealing, and that every show of her genuine appreciation was treasured in her friend's deepest heart, he was savoring the best time of his life through her. The summer turned into autumn smoothly and pleasantly, just as Sylvia’s interest blossomed into a lasting friendship.

Drawn curtains blocked out the chilly night, and the first fire[120] of the season crackled in the hearth. Sylvia sat in its warmth, letting her thoughts drift wherever they wanted. Just as books tend to open at the pages we've read most often, the memories of her summer with Warwick always seemed to come back to the moments that included his name. Although many hours from that time were enjoyable, none felt as beautiful as those spent with him, especially the twilight walks they took hand in hand. It came back to her so vividly that she could almost hear the evening sounds, feel the warm, fern-scented breeze brushing against her, and see his strong hand offered in assistance. With an urge she couldn't resist, she reached out towards that imagined Warwick, her heart pouring out in a yearning gesture.

"Come on!"

"I'm here."

A voice answered, a hand held hers, and as she jumped up, she saw not Adam, but Moor, standing next to her with a bright smile. Hiding the mix of joy and the hurt he had caused her, she welcomed him warmly and, sitting back down, instinctively attempted to change the direction of her thoughts.

"I’m glad you came because I’ve been daydreaming for a long time, and you’ll provide me with more real entertainment, just like you always do."

The shattered dream had left signs of its existence in the unusual warmth of Sylvia's demeanor; Moor sensed it, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. Much of her previous shyness had returned lately; she sometimes avoided him, was less open in conversation, less straightforward in her expressions, and once or twice she had blushed deeply when their eyes met. These hints of Warwick's image in her thoughts seemed to Moor like the promising signs he had eagerly anticipated, and with each passing day, his hope became more solid. He had observed her unnoticed while she was engaged in her mental distraction, and as he gazed, his heart swelled with an indescribable tenderness, for he had never felt her hold over him so strongly, nor had he ever longed to claim her with such fierce love. A comforting calm filled the house, the girl sat next to him, the moment felt right, the desire became overwhelming, and he gave in to it.

"You’re thinking of something nice and fresh to share with me, I hope—something that fits this calm place and time," said Sylvia, looking up at him with the lingering softness still in her eyes.

"Yes, and I hope you will like it."

"Then I've never heard it before?"

"Not from me."

"Go ahead, I’m ready."

She clasped her hands on her knee, turned her face to his with full attention, and unknowingly got ready to listen to the sweet story that was often told yet so difficult to express. Moor planned to court her gently, believing that love was new for her. He had crafted many elegant illustrations for his story and formed many smoothly flowing sentences to share it. But emotions aren't well-controlled, and when the time came, nature overcame art. No gesture felt beautiful enough to convey his passion, no words were eloquent enough to express it, and no strength was powerful enough to contain the urge that overwhelmed him. He approached her, knelt on the cushion at her feet, and, looking up at her with a face flushed and fervent from the intensity of a man's first love, said impulsively—

"Sylvia, check it out here!"

There was no need for her to look; his actions, touch, and tone conveyed the message better than any passionate speech. The way he carried himself, the fast rhythm of his heart, the gentle grip of his hand, lifted her fog of ignorance in a single breath and revealed to her the mistake she had made. Now, the ignored warnings, her own selfishness, and the realization of an unintentional but irreversible wrongdoing filled her with fear and confusion; she buried her face and recoiled, trembling with regret and shame. Moor, seeing her distress as just youthful happiness or uncertainty, relished the joyful moment as he waited for her response. It took so long that he gently tried to pull her hands away to see her face, whispering softly, as if he were almost sure of her agreement—

"Do you love me, Sylvia?"

"Nope."

Only half audible was the hesitant answer, yet he heard it, smiled at what he thought was a shy untruth, and said softly—

"Will you let me love you, my dear?"[123]

"Nope."

Fainter than before was the one word, but it reached and startled him. Hurriedly he asked—

"Am I just a friend to you?"

"Nope."

With a quick gesture, he set her hands down and looked at her. Grief, regret, and pity filled her face with turmoil, but there was no love in her expression. He saw it but refused to accept the truth; he felt that the comforting certainty of love was gone, yet he couldn't let go of the wishful hope.

"Sylvia, do you get me?"

"I do, I do! But I can't say what you want me to, and I have to be honest, even if it hurts. Geoffrey, I don't love you."

"Can I not teach you?" he asked eagerly.

"I don't want to learn."

Softly she spoke, looking regretful, but her words hit him like a blow. All the joy disappeared, the fiery passion faded, and the affectionate touch, both gentle and hesitant, slipped away, leaving no trace of the happy lover in her expression or stance. He slowly got up as if weighed down by crushing disappointment. He gave her a look filled with disbelief, accusation, and sorrow, and said, as if determined to end the tension immediately—

"Did you not see that I loved you? Could you have been playing with my feelings? Sylvia, I thought you were too genuine and honest for heartless flirtation."

"I am! You won’t suspect me of that, even though I deserve all other criticisms. I’ve been really selfish and very blind. I should have realized that in your kindness, you might care about me too much for your own sake. I should have trusted Mark and been less open in my[124] expressions of affection. But I needed a friend so badly; I found everything I could want in you; I thought my youth, my mistakes, my foolishness would make it impossible for you to see me as anything other than a wayward girl who openly showed her feelings and took pride in yours. It was one of my sad mistakes; I see that now, and now it’s too late for anything but regret. Forgive me if you can; I’ve taken all the joy and left you all the hurt."

Sylvia spoke with overwhelming regret and sadness. Moor listened with a heavy heart, and when she buried her face in her hands once more, unable to handle the look of hope on his face, he turned away and said with a tone of quiet despair—

"Then I've worked and waited all summer to see my harvest fail in the end. Oh, Sylvia, I loved you so much, I trusted you completely."

He rested his arm on the low mantel, laid his head on it, and stood quietly, trying to let go of his anger.

It’s always a tough moment for any woman when she has to muster her bravest honesty to look into a face filled with eager love, only to turn it into one of bitter disappointment with just one word. For Sylvia, it was even harder, as her blindness felt both unbelievable and cruel; her past openness seemed unjustified; her happiness felt selfish; her refusal felt like the worst betrayal, and her dream of friendship was forever ruined. In the brief silence that followed, every little thing he had done for her came rushing back to her mind; every hour of real joy and genuine worth he had given her returned to haunt her; every look, tone, and action from their happy past and sad present seemed to plead for him. Her conscience condemned her, and her heart overflowed with regret and compassion.[125] She looked at him, wanting to say or do something to show her remorse and assure him of the love she felt. As she gazed at him, two big tears fell glittering onto the hearth, laying there as such powerful reminders that, if Sylvia’s heart had been as hard and cold as the marble where they shone, it would have melted then. She couldn’t stand it; she went to him, took his rejected hand that hung at his side in both of her own, and feeling that no gesture could express her sorrow too tenderly, lifted it to her lips and softly kissed it.

An instant she was allowed to rest her cheek against it like a sorry child silently asking for forgiveness might have done. Then it slipped from her grasp, and pulling her close, Moor looked up, exclaiming with renewed hope and unchanged desire—

"You actually care for me, then? You give yourself to me even with that tough No? Ah, Sylvia, you are fickle even in your love."

She couldn’t respond because if that first no had been tough to say, this one was impossible. It felt like twisting the knife in the wound, to let down the hope that had grown stronger from despair, and she could only rest her head on his chest, crying the saddest tears she had ever cried. Still happy in his new illusion, Moor gently ran his fingers through her shining hair, smiling so sweetly, so happily, that it was probably for the best that she didn’t see the smile; the words were enough.

"Dear Sylvia, I’ve tried so hard to make you love me, how could you not?"

The reason was on the tip of her tongue, but her pride and shame held her back. What could she say except that she had nurtured feelings based only on a glance? She had[126] fooled herself into thinking Moor was just a friend; could it be that she had also fooled herself into believing Warwick was a lover? She couldn’t admit this secret; revealing it wouldn’t change her answer or heal Moor's pain, but the thought of Warwick gave her strength. It always did, just as the presence of his friend always comforted her, because one represented power, while the other represented tenderness.

"Geoffrey, I have to be honest with you and with myself," she said, so sincerely that it made her shaky words feel heavy. "I can't be your wife, but I can be your close friend for life. Please try to accept this—make it easier for me by letting go of your hope—and know that as long as I live, I’ll do everything I can to show how sorry I am for the huge mistake I've made."

"Does it have to be this way? I really struggle to accept the truth and let go of the hope that has brought me happiness for so long. Please, let me hold on to it, Sylvia; let me wait and try again. I truly believe that you will love me again, because I am devoted to you completely, longing for you all the time, and I see you as the only woman in the world."

"Ah, if only it were possible!" she sighed.

"Let me make it happen! Honestly, I don't think I should take too long. You’re so young, dear, you haven't figured out your own heart yet. It wasn't just pity or guilt that brought you here to comfort me. Was it, Sylvia?"

"Yes. If it had been love, could I just stand here now and not show it?"

She looked up at him, showing him that even though her cheeks were wet, there was no rosy glow of passion there; even though her eyes were full of both love and grief, she didn’t shy away from his gaze, nor did she lower her lids to hide too much; and even though his arm was wrapped around her, she didn’t cling to him like loving women do when they lean on the strength that, touched by love, can both nurture and support. That look convinced him more than a flood of words ever could. A long sigh escaped his lips, and, turning away from her, his eyes, which had searched so long and found nothing, wandered aimlessly as if they were searching for the hope whose absence made life feel empty. Sylvia noticed it, groaned internally, but still held on to the harsh truth, trying to make it gentler.

"Geoffrey, I once heard you tell Mark, 'Friendship is the best degree a person can earn. Believe in it, pursue it, and when it arrives, cherish it as you would love.' Throughout my life, I have longed for a friend, searched for one, and when he appeared, I embraced him. Can I not hold onto him and keep the friendship precious and meaningful, even if I can't offer love?"

Softly and earnestly, she spoke, but her words felt cold to him; friendship seemed so insignificant now, love so abundant, he couldn’t bring himself to leave the beautiful sunshine that lit up the entire world and sit down in the cozy circle of a warm fire without deep regret.

"I should say yes, I'll try to do it if nothing easier comes up. Sylvia, for five years I've been longing and waiting for a home. Back then, duty kept me from it because poor Marion only had me to make her sad life happy, and my mother entrusted her to my care. Now that duty is over, the old house feels very empty, and my heart is very hungry for affection. You mean everything to me, and it's so hard to let go of my dream that I have to be persistent. I spoke too soon; you haven't had time to think or reflect on your own feelings. Now, take a moment to remember what I said, and know that I will wait for you patiently. When I leave in an hour, please come down and give me my final answer."

Sylvia was about to say something, but the sound of someone approaching made her feel a shyness she had never experienced before, and without saying a word, she quickly left the room. Then romance also disappeared, as Prue came rushing in, and Moor was called to discuss the flu, even though his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of love.

Alone in her room, Sylvia reflected on her feelings. She envisioned the life she would have with Moor. The old house was filled with something more valuable than its luxury, a warm, peaceful atmosphere that made it feel like home to anyone who entered. She would be the daily partner and beloved wife of the man who brought such happiness into that space; his calmness eased her restlessness; his love would be as lasting as his patience; she held deep respect for his character. She believed no woman could wish for a happier home or a more genuine, loving partner. But when she looked inward, she found the warm, steady feeling he once sparked in her still unchanged, and her heart responded—

"That's friendship."

She thought about Warwick and the other home that could belong to her. She imagined how vibrant and colorful the exciting life would be, filled with novelty, thrill, and endless joy such adventures would bring her. The happiness of always being with him; the pride of knowing she was closest and dearest to such a man; the certainty that she could share his past, enjoy his present, and help shape his future. There was no time to reflect on her feelings,[129] because warmth rushed to her cheeks, hope sparkled in her eyes, longing filled her lips, and her answer was eager and ready—

"Ah, this is love!"

The clock struck ten, and after hesitating for a moment, Sylvia went downstairs. She moved slowly because her mission was a tough one; she was deep in thought, unsure of where or how to deliver it best. There was no need to search for him or wait for him to arrive; he was already there. Alone in the hallway, he was absentmindedly smoothing out a little silk shawl he often wore, waiting with a sad patience that touched her heart. He approached her, took both her hands in his, and gazed into her face with such tenderness and longing!

"Sylvia, is it good night or goodbye?"

Her eyes were teary, her hands shook, her face lost color, but she replied calmly—

"Sorry; it's farewell."

"Another gift for you, Sylvia. I don't recognize the handwriting,[130] but it smells like flowers," said Mark, as a smiling maid brought in a package on Christmas morning.

Sylvia tore off the wrapping, lifted the lid, and exclaimed with delight, even though it was the simplest gift she had received that day. It was just an elegantly designed wicker basket, lined with moss and filled with holly sprigs, the bright red berries shining beautifully against the polished green. There was no note, no card, and no clue about who had given it, as none of them recognized the boldly written address. Then, a thought struck Sylvia; suddenly, the mystery seemed wonderfully clear, and she said to herself with a surge of joy, "This is so like Adam; I know he sent it."

"I have to say it’s the strangest gift I’ve ever seen, and I think the boy who brought it must have stolen whatever valuable item was inside, because it was wrapped so sloppily. No one in their right mind would send a few sprigs of ordinary holly to a young woman like this," said Prue, poking around in search of a clue.

"It’s not something you see often, but it’s really beautiful; we rarely come across something so large and green, and packed with berries. It’s not strange, but really thoughtful, because from the frayed look of the packaging, I can tell it has traveled a long way to make me happy. Check out the little ferns in the moss, and breathe in the sweet, damp smell that feels like summer woods even though there’s a snowstorm outside. Ah, he really knew what I would love."

"Who knew?" Mark asked quickly.

"You have to guess." And worried that she had given herself away, Sylvia quickly crossed the room to put the holly in water.

"Ah, I get it," Mark said, chuckling.

"Who's there?" asked Prue, looking confused.

"Geoffrey," Mr. Yule whispered, looking pleased.

Then all three looked at each other, nodded wisely, and all three glanced at the little person leaning over the table with cheeks almost as rosy as the berries in her hand.

Everyone knows what a Christmas party is like when a general sense of friendliness fills the air, and good wishes float around like confetti during Carnival. That night, Sylvia and Mark attended such a party, with Mark looking unusually cheerful and dapper because his beloved Jessie had promised to show up if certain aunts and uncles left on time. Sylvia wore a costume that was both pretty and fitting, with snow and holly making her the perfect embodiment of Yule. Sylvia loved dancing and recognized "wallflowers" only by sight; so she kept busy. Her lover's gift shone green against her bosom, hair, and fluffy skirts, which made her beautiful. The thought that Adam hadn't forgotten her warmed her heart; thus, she was incredibly happy. Mark was devoted but disappointed because Jessie didn’t come, and after condemning the aunts and uncles for holding her back, he sought comfort among less attractive girls.

"Now go and enjoy yourself. I won't dance any more circle dances; I'd prefer to only do that with you, and you've suffered long enough."

Mark wandered off, and finding a cool spot, Sylvia watched the lively scene in front of her until her wandering gaze was caught by the sight of a newcomer, and she tried to remember where she had seen him. The slim figure, dark face, and lively eyes all seemed familiar, but she couldn’t place his name until he met her gaze, half bowing and fully smiling. Then she recalled their brief encounter, and while she was still remembering, one of their young hosts appeared with the stranger, and Gabriel André was officially introduced.

"I didn't really expect to be remembered, so I'm very flattered, I promise you. Did you have a hard time with the rain that day, Miss Yule?"

The speech didn't mean much, but the foreign accent added a softness to the words, and his Southern charm gave a romantic vibe to the attractive young man. Sylvia was in a good mood, ready to enjoy everyone and everything, and she was particularly gracious as they happily explored the topic prompted by his question. Soon, he asked—

"Is Warwick with you now?"

"He wasn't staying with us, but with his friend, Mr. Moor."

"He was the guy who did so well that day?"

"Yep."

"Is Warwick still with him?"

"Oh, no, he left three months ago."

"I wonder where!"[133]

"Same here!"

The wish had been expressed on a whim and was echoed just as quickly. Young André smiled and liked Miss Yule more for forgetting her somewhat superior attitude.

"You don’t have any guesses, then? I really want to find him, a lot, but I can’t figure out how to track him down. He’s so what you call unusual that he doesn’t write any letters, doesn’t leave an address, and wanders around like a natural gypsy."

"Do you have bad news for him?"

"I have everything a man could want; but I worry that while I'm searching for him, he’s ended up disappointing himself. You're a friend, right?"

"I'm here."

"Then you know a lot about him, his life, his behavior?"

"Yeah, both from him and Mr. Moor."

"Then you know about his engagement to my cousin, of course, and I can talk about it because if you’re willing to help, you might be able to assist us in finding him."

"I didn’t know—maybe he didn’t want me to know—" began Sylvia, pressing one hand tightly into the other, taking a quick breath and feeling for a moment as if someone had slapped her.

"He thinks so little of us that I won’t consider his wish right now. If you don't mind, I’d like to say something for my cousin's sake, since I know you'll care about her, and I don’t feel out of place with you."

Sylvia bowed, and standing in front of her with a mix of masculine and youthful swagger, Gabriel continued in his characteristic low, quick tone.

"Look, my cousin got engaged in May. A month[134] later, Adam complains that he loves too much for his own good, that he has no freedom in his heart or mind, and that he needs to leave and catch his breath before he becomes a happy prisoner forever. Ottila told me this. She begged him to stay; but no, he insists he won’t come back until they marry next June. He thinks it’s weak to love a woman. How ridiculous! I have no patience for him."

Gabriel spoke angrily and pressed his foot into the carpet with a disdainful expression. But Sylvia paid no attention to his irritation; she only kept her gaze locked on him with a focus he misinterpreted as interest. Her eyes were beautiful, and the attention was flattering. Even though he knew he was overstepping and breaching her trust, the impulsive young man decided to go through with what he started, hoping no consequences would come from it.

"He has been gone for over six months now, but he hasn't sent a letter, a message, or anything to show that he's still alive. Ottila waits, she writes, she becomes too anxious to bear it, and she goes out to search for him. I help her, but we still haven't found him, and in the meantime, I keep her entertained. My friends are supportive, and we have a good time as we search for this missing Adam."

If Sylvia could have doubted the unexpected revelation, this last trait was so much like Warwick that it convinced her immediately. Although the belief she had held onto for so long was suddenly taken away, she floated silently with no outward sign of disaster as her hope sank. Pride was her shield, and pushing down all other emotions, she kept herself unnaturally calm behind it until she was alone. If Gabriel had been watching her, he would have only noticed that she was a paler blonde than he had thought; her demeanor was more coolly charming than before; and her gaze no longer met his but focused steadily on the folded fan she held. However, he wasn't watching her; instead, he was frequently glancing over her head at something at the far end of the room that a group of attentive gentlemen was blocking. His eyes wandered, but his thoughts stayed fixed, as he was still focused on the purpose that seemed to have brought him to her. He said, as if hesitant to be intrusive, yet determined to find out—

"Pardon me for not entertaining you well, and let me ask one more question on behalf of Ottila. This Moor, wouldn't he provide us with some insight into Adam's whereabouts?"

"He’s not here and probably won’t be until spring. I’m not sure where he is; otherwise, I would write to you. Did Mr. Warwick say he would come back in June?"

"Yep."

"Then, if he survives, he will come. Your cousin has to wait; it won’t be for nothing."

"It won't!"

The young man's voice was serious, and a fiery spark made his dark eyes intense. Then his earlier charm came back, and with his most graceful demeanor, he said—

"You’re very kind, Miss Yule; thank you, and let’s put this annoying situation behind us. May I have the honor?"

If he had suggested dancing over a cliff, Sylvia felt like she could have gone along with it, as long as there was time to ask a question or two before the fall. A moment later, Mark was surprised to see her gliding around the room with "the olive-colored party," whom he recognized right away. His surprise quickly turned to happiness, as his eye for beauty and his brotherly pride were both pleased when the spinning couples settled down and the young couple circled slowly by, adding a special charm to the elegant dance that few could achieve, creating a memorable scene of youthful joy for those watching.

"Thank you! I haven’t enjoyed a waltz like this since I left Cuba. It’s not the politest thing to say, but I can share it with you because you dance like a Spaniard. The ladies here feel as cold as their own snow, and they treat dancing as a duty instead of a pleasure. They should see Ottila; she’s full of grace and passion. I could lose myself dancing with her. Adam used to say watching her was like drinking wine."

"I wish she were here to teach us a lesson."

"She is, but she won't dance tonight."

"Here!" shouted Sylvia, halting suddenly.

"Why not? Elyott is crazy about her and wouldn’t leave me alone until I brought her. She’s behind that wall of guys; should I make a way for you? She’ll be happy to talk with you about Adam, and I want to show you the prettiest woman in Havana."

"Let’s wait a bit; I’d be nervous talking in front of so many people. She’s really beautiful, then."

"You'll laugh and call me over the top, like others do, if I share my thoughts, so I'll let you decide for yourself. Look, your brother is standing on his toes to sneak a look at her. Now he goes inside, and there he'll stay. You might not like that, but Ottila can't help being beautiful, nor can she control the way all men fall for her. I wish she could!"

"She’s talented and successful, not to mention beautiful?" asked Sylvia, looking at her companion's downcast face.

"She is everything a woman should be, and I could shoot Adam for his cruel neglect."[137]

Gabriel's dark face sparked with excitement as he talked, and Sylvia tiredly wished he would realize how rude it was to burden her with complaints about her friend and praises for his cousin. He seemed to notice this, grew a bit offended by her silence, and when he spoke again, he was back to being distant.

"This is a contra dance; should we give the snow ladies another lesson? First, may I take the pleasure of getting you an ice?"

"A glass of water, please; I'm cool enough without more ice."

He sat her down and went on his business. She felt calm now; tired, heartbroken, and wanting to be alone. But these days, women don’t rip their hair out and cause a scene, even though their hearts can feel the same sharp pain as before. Until her brother arrived, she knew she had to keep it together and show no signs of distress. She managed it, sipped the water with a smile, danced energetically, and held it together until Mark showed up. At that moment, she was alone, and his first words were—

"Have you seen her?"

"No; take me to where I can, and tell me what you know about her."

"Nothing, except that she is André's cousin, and he really likes her, like boys often do with a charming woman who is nice to them. Pretend to admire these flowers and look at her without her noticing, or she will scold you like an insulted princess, just like she did with me."

Sylvia looked and saw the most beautiful woman in Havana, and instantly disliked her. It was just natural, since Sylvia was a very relatable girl, and Ottila was someone no woman could love, no matter how much she might admire her.[138]

Hers was the kind of character that every era has produced, varying on the surface with different climates and circumstances, but fundamentally the same from legendary Circe to Lola Montes, or some less famous seductress whose subjects aren’t kings. The same passions that in ancient times led to heaven-defying crimes; the same power of beauty, intellect, or cunning; the same untameable spirit and lack of moral sentiment are traits found in all, whether they’re latent or active depending on whether a noble or ignoble nature prevails. Most of us can remember glimpses of such examples of Nature's work in bold moments. Many of our own living rooms have showcased illustrations of the more noble type, and modern men and women have felt intimidated before royal figures whose power ruled over all except themselves. Born in Athens, and gifted with a sharper intellect, Ottila could have been an Aspasia; or, if she had been cast in the great tragedy of the French Revolution, she might have played a brave role and died heroically like Roland and Corday. But placed in uneventful times, the courage, wit, and passion that could have served grand purposes diminished into their lesser forms, making her what she was—a captivating sight for men, a natural rival to women's peace, a directionless nature as absolute as fate.

Sylvia had no understanding that could help her analyze the mixed feelings she experienced towards Warwick's fiancé. She had no doubt he loved her, as she sensed even his pride would give in to the strong allure of this woman. As Sylvia observed, her keen female eye took in every feature of Ottila's face and figure, every graceful posture or gesture, every delicate touch in her outfit, and found no apparent flaw in her, from her proud head to her beautiful foot. Yet when her examination concluded, the[139] girl felt a sense of disappointment, with no envy accompanying her admiration.

As she stood there, neglecting to show any interest in the camellias in front of her, she saw Gabriel meet up with his cousin and noticed her pause to look up at him with a worried expression. He responded, glancing toward the area of the room where she was standing. Ottila focused on her immediately; a quick yet sharp assessment followed, and then her dazzling eyes shifted away with such utter indifference that Sylvia felt a rush of heat as if she had been insulted.

"Mark, I'm going home," she said, suddenly.

"Okay, I'm ready."

When she was finally safe in her room, Sylvia's first move was to take off the holly wreath because her head was pounding with a pain that made it impossible to hope for sleep that night. Looking at the little garland she had made so happily, she noticed that all the berries had fallen off, leaving only the sharp leaves behind. In a sudden motion, she crushed it in both hands, and while standing there, she gathered many scattered memories to reinforce that night's revelation.

Warwick had said, with such a gentle tone in his voice, "I thought of the woman I would make my wife." That was Ottila. He had asked, worriedly, "Should someone keep a promise if it disrupts their peace?" He regretted his quick vow to stay away until June. It wasn't love she saw in his eyes the night they broke up, but pity. He understood her secret before her kind gaze revealed it to her, and he left to prevent her from making a bigger mistake. She had fooled herself, blindly holding onto a false hope, and this was the outcome. Even for the nameless gift, she found a reason, with a woman's knack for self-torture. Moor had met Adam, shared his disappointment, and still feeling sorry for her, Warwick had sent the lovely message to comfort her for losing both her friend and lover.

This thought sparked a sudden passion in her. Wishing to erase every trace of her delusion, she ripped off the holly wreaths and tossed them into the fire; took down the bow and arrow that Warwick had made for her from above the étagère, where she had displayed the treasures from her joyful voyage, snapped them across her knee, and sent them after the holly. Next came the birch canoe, every pebble, moss, shell, and bundle of grass he had given her then. The osier basket didn’t escape, the box followed, and even the wrapping was on its way to being burned, when, as she tore it apart, feeling a grim satisfaction in the destruction that was about to happen, a card fell from a hidden fold of the paper at her feet.

She picked it up and read in handwriting nearly as familiar as her own: "To Sylvia,—Happy Christmas and best wishes from her friend, Geoffrey Moor." The word "friend" was underlined, as if he wanted to reassure her that he still valued the only connection he was allowed, and sent the green token to ease her disappointment that she couldn’t give more.

Warm over Sylvia's aching heart surged the tender thought and longing, as her tears started to fall. "He cares about me! He remembered me! I wish he would come back and comfort me!"

It’s easy to say, “I’ll forget,” but maybe the toughest[141] thing we face is locking away a natural yearning of the heart and ignoring its cries, because the captive and the jailer share the same small cell. Sylvia was proud, with a pride that is both sensitive and brave, which can not only endure but also draw strength from suffering. While she battled a grief and shame that aged her with their pain, she asked for no help and made no complaints; but when the forbidden passion reached out to her, she pushed it away and turned to pleasure for distraction.

Those who knew her best were troubled and surprised by the craving for excitement that had taken over her, and how eagerly she satisfied it, without caring about time, health, or money. All day she rushed around, driving, shopping, sightseeing, or hosting guests at home. Night offered no break from her extravagance, for when balls, masquerades, and concerts weren’t enough, there was always the theater. This quickly became both a refuge and a comfort, as her father allowed her this new obsession, believing it to be less harmful than other distractions. But, had she realized it, this was the most dangerous hobby she could have picked. It didn’t require any effort from her, leaving her free to passively absorb a stimulant for her unfulfilled love by watching its fake representation through all forms of tragic suffering and sorrow, as she refused to watch any comedies, and Shakespeare’s tragedies became her focus.[142]

This went on for a while, then the reaction hit. A deep sadness settled over her, and she lost all energy in both body and mind. She found it exhausting to get up in the morning and just as tiring to lie down at night. She didn’t even care to pretend to be happy, admitted that she felt lifeless, wished she would get sick, and didn’t mind if she died tomorrow. Just when it seemed this dark mood might become permanent, she started to improve, because youth is remarkably resilient, and even the deepest wounds heal quickly, sometimes against the will of the one suffering. A calm indifference took the place of her gloom, and she let life carry her wherever it wanted, hoping for nothing, expecting nothing, asking only to not suffer anymore.

She lived quickly; everything about her was fast-paced; and the hidden lessons from that winter taught her a lot. She thought it had only taught her to forget because now the rejected love lay quiet, no longer pounding desperately at her heart's door, asking to be let in from the cold. She imagined that neglect had killed it, and that its grave was lush with many tears. Poor Sylvia! How could she know that it had merely cried itself to sleep, and would wake up beautiful and strong at the first sound of its owner’s voice?

Mark became quite the talk of the town. In his sporadic way, he had painted a picture of the Golden Wedding, based on sketches he made at the time. Moor had suggested it and arranged for him to create it, hoping that the young artist would have a reason to finish it, since, although he was great at painting such scenes, he thought they were beneath him and, tempted by more ambitious ideas, neglected his true area of expertise. By April, it was done, and at his father's request, Mark reluctantly sent it along with his Clytemnestra to the annual exhibition. One morning at breakfast, Mr. Yule suddenly burst out laughing behind his newspaper, and with a face full of satisfaction, he handed it to his son, pointing to a long critique of the Exhibition. Mark braced himself to accept the praises he expected for his major work with proper humility, but was stunned to see that Clytemnestra was dismissed in a single sentence, while the Golden Wedding was celebrated in a lengthy, enthusiastic paragraph.

"What on earth does that guy mean!" he exclaimed, staring at his father.

"He means that the work that touches your heart is more important than what chills you to the bone, I think. Moor understood what you were capable of and pushed you to reach it, confident that if you pursued fame without even realizing it, you would attain it. This is a success that I truly admire, and I'm really happy for you, my son."

"Thank you, sir. But honestly, I don't get it, and if this wasn't written by the best art critic in the country, I would be tempted to call the writer a fool. That little piece was a mess compared to the others."

He didn’t get very far in protesting this surprising twist of fate because Sylvia grabbed the paper and read the paragraph aloud with such joyful energy, amidst Prue’s protests and his father’s cheers, that Mark started to feel like he had actually accomplished something commendable, and that the “daub” wasn’t so terrible after all.

"I'm going to view it from this new perspective," was his only remark as he walked away.[144]

Three hours later, he appeared to Sylvia while she was sitting alone and sewing, startling her with his mysterious announcement.

"I did it!"

"Done what? Did you burn poor Clytemnestra?"

"Hang Clytemnestra! I’ll start from the beginning and get you ready for the big finish. I went to the Exhibition and stared at Father Blake and his family for an hour. I decided it wasn’t too bad, although I still admire the others more. Then people started to come and crowd around, so I slipped away because I couldn’t handle the compliments. Dahlmann, Scott, and all the others from my crew were there, and, as sure as my name is Mark Yule, every single one of them ignored the Greek party and congratulated me on the success of that annoying Golden Wedding."

"My dear boy, I’m so proud! So happy! What’s wrong? Did a tarantula bite you?"

She might as well ask, because Mark was dancing all over the carpet in a really wild way, and only paused long enough to toss a small case into Sylvia's lap, grinning from ear to ear as he did so—

"What does that mean?"

She opened it, and a suspicious ring of diamonds showed up, at which she clapped her hands and exclaimed—

"You're going to ask Jessie to put it on!"

"I have! I have!" sang Mark, dancing more wildly than ever. Sylvia chased him into a corner and held him there, almost as excited as he was, while she demanded a full explanation, which he gave her, laughing like a kid and blushing like a girl.

"You shouldn’t be asking, but I can’t help but share. I left that Painter's Purgatory, as we call it, and went to Mr. Hope’s place to find Miss Jessie. My angel appeared; I told her about my success, and she smiled like no woman ever has before. I mentioned that I had only waited to prove myself worthy of her by showing I had talent, along with love and money to offer. That made her start to cry, so I took her in my arms and felt like I was going straight to heaven."

"Please be honest, Mark, and tell me everything. Was she happy? Did she agree to it? And is everything as we wanted it to be?"

"It’s all perfect, divine, and absolutely amazing. Jessie has liked me ever since she was born, or so she thinks; she adores you and Prue as sisters; she longs to call my parent 'dad'; she let me say and do whatever I wanted; and she gave me a wonderful kiss right there. Sacred spot; I’ll get a matching one when I slip this onto her blessed little finger. Try it for me, I want it to be perfect, and your hands are the right size. That fits perfectly. When will I see a happy sweetheart doing this for himself, Sylvia?"

"Not a chance!"

She flicked off the ring as if it scalded her, watching it roll away, sparkling, with a somewhat sad expression. Then she gathered herself, and sitting down to her work, enjoyed Mark's enthusiasm for an hour.

The distant city bells rang nine that night as a man stopped in front of Mr. Yule's house, carefully examining each window. Many were lit, but on the drawn curtain of one, a woman's shadow appeared and disappeared. He watched it for a moment, walked up the steps, and quietly went inside. The hall was bright and empty; from above, voices could be heard from a room on the right, along with the sounds of papers shuffling and the scratch of a pen, and from a room on the left, a steady rustle that sounded like silk moved slowly back and forth. The man stepped to the threshold of this door and looked inside.

Sylvia was just turning in her walk, and as she came lost in thought down the room, Moor saw her clearly. With some women, how they dress doesn't reflect their state of mind; with Sylvia, it often revealed the mental state she was in. Moor remembered this trait and noticed in both her expression and outfit the change that had occurred in her during his long absence. Her face was neither cheerful nor sad, but serious and quietly distant, as if some inner twilight was present. Her dress, a soft, sad grey, had no embellishment except a knot of snowdrops in her chest. Her eyes were fixed on those pale flowers, and as she walked with her arms folded and her head down, she sang softly to herself—

"Sylvia!"

Very softly was the call, but she jumped as if it had been a shout, glanced for a moment while light and color filled her face, then ran to him, exclaiming joyfully—

"Oh, Geoffrey! I'm so happy! I'm so happy!"

There could only be one response to such a warm welcome, and Sylvia took it in as she stood there, not crying anymore, but smiling with genuine satisfaction, the happiest surprise. Moor felt both emotions, like a man might feel[147] when he’s parched with thirst, reaching out for a drop of rain, and receives a full cup of water. He took a deep sip gratefully, then, worried it might be taken away just as quickly, asked anxiously—

"Sylvia, are we just friends or something more?"

"Anything, as long as you just stay."

She looked up as she spoke, and her face showed that she was torn between desire and doubt. She had come here on impulse, and now that she felt loved, it was hard for her to leave. Her brother's happiness had touched her heart, stirred her old longing for affection, and created a strong desire to fill the empty space her lost love had left with this newfound one. Sylvia hadn’t learned to think things through yet; she could only feel because, due to the uneven development of her divided nature, her heart grew faster than her mind. Instinct was her best guide, and when she followed it without being blinded by passion or held back by her mood, she thrived. But now she was both blinded and held back, and with that, her huge temptation arose. Ambition, the idol of men, had tempted her father; love, the goddess of women, tempted her; and, as if her father’s redemption was to be achieved through his beloved child, the daughter too made the devastating mistake of her life.

"Then you have learned to love me, Sylvia?"

"No, my old feelings haven't changed except to become more remorseful and more eager to prove their truth. You once asked me if I didn’t want to love you; back then, I didn't, but now I truly do. If you still want me, flaws and all, and will guide me gently to become who I should be for you, I will happily learn, because I’ve never needed love as much as I do now. Geoffrey, should I stay or go?"[148]

"Wait, Sylvia. Oh, thank God for this!"

If she had ever thought that Moor would forget her for his own good, she now realized how pointless that hope was, and was both moved and unsettled by the awareness of her power that this moment brought her. She felt as much calmer as friendship is compared to love, and was the first to speak again, still standing there satisfied even though her words revealed uncertainty.

"Are you really sure you want me? Aren't you tired of the pain that has troubled you for so long? Just remember, I'm very young, inexperienced, and not suited to be a wife. Can I truly make you happy? Make our home what you want it to be? And will you never feel regret in your eyes that a smarter, better woman isn't here instead of me?"

"I have confidence in myself and I'm happy with you, because you aren't any wiser, any better—you're just my Sylvia."

"It’s really nice to hear you say that with that look on your face. I don’t deserve it, but I’ll take it. Is the pain I caused you before gone now, Geoffrey?"

"Lost forever."

"Then I feel content, and I will start my life over by making an effort to learn the lesson my kind teacher is going to share with me."

When Moor left that night, Sylvia followed him, and as they stood together, this joyful moment seemed to bring back that other sad one. He took her hands again and asked, smiling now—

"Dear, is it goodnight or goodbye?"

"It’s all good, see you tomorrow."

Nothing could have been more different than the two pairs[149] of lovers who haunted Mr. Yule's house from April to August. One pair was the typical kind, with Mark being tenderly controlling and Jessie being adoringly compliant, and they could often be seen creating scenes of their affection throughout the day. The other pair was an unusual kind, reserved and unsentimental, yet just as happy. Moor recognized his influence but used it generously, asking for little while giving a lot. Sylvia, at that point, found nothing to regret; she was taught so gently that the lesson felt easy. And when her feelings remained the same in type but grew stronger in intensity, she thought to herself—

"That intense and abrupt feeling wasn't true love, but an unwise and painful illusion of my own. I should be relieved that it's over, because I realize I'm not meant to be Warwick's wife. This calm affection that Geoffrey brings out in me must be a more secure kind of love, and I should appreciate that by contributing to his happiness, I might find my own."

She tried hard to lose herself in others, unaware that sometimes the obligation we have to ourselves is more important than what we owe to them. In the cheerful atmosphere surrounding her, she couldn't help but feel happy, and soon it would have been hard to find a[150] more harmonious household than this. One small issue remained to disrupt the overall joy. Mark was eager to get married but insisted on a double wedding, and Sylvia kept delaying, always making excuses—

"Let me be completely certain of myself before I take this step, and don't wait."

Matters stood this way until Mark, having set up his honeymoon cottage to ease his impatience, found it so irresistible that he announced his wedding for the first of August and declared that nothing would change his mind. Sylvia promised to consider it but didn’t give a firm answer, as, though she wouldn’t admit it to herself, she was eager to stay free until June was over. June came and went without a sign, and July began before her desire for freedom suddenly faded, and she agreed to get married.

Mark and Jessie came in from the city one warm morning and found Sylvia sitting around in the hall. She left all her preparations to Prue, who loved that kind of stuff, and focused intently on her lesson as if she was worried she might not get it right. Halfway up the stairs, Mark turned around and said, laughing—

"Sylvia, I ran into Searle today—one of the guys we met on the river last summer—and he started to tell me something about André and the amazing cousin, who apparently has married and gone abroad. I didn’t catch much of it since Jessie was waiting, but you remember the good-looking Cubans we saw at Christmas, right?"

"Yeah, I remember."

"Well, I thought you'd want to know that the guy went home for Cleopatra's wedding, so you can't have him[151] to dance at yours. Have you forgotten how you danced that night?"

"No, I haven't forgotten."

Mark went to talk to Prue, while Jessie started showing off her purchases to eyes that only saw a blur of shapes and colors, and raved about their beauty to ears that only heard the words—"The splendid cousin is married and gone abroad."

"I would enjoy these beautiful things a thousand times more if you would make us all happy by getting married when we do," sighed Jessie, looking at her pearls.

"I will."

"What, really? Sylvia, you are absolutely adorable! Mark! Prue! she says she will!"

Away flew Jessie to share the good news, and Sylvia, with a curious mix of relief, regret, and determination, repeated to herself that she had made up her mind—

"I got this."

Everyone made sure that Miss Caprice wouldn't have time to change her mind. The whole house was soon buzzing with activity, as Prue was in charge. Mr. Yule escaped the noise of women's chatter, the grooms were given very little time with the brides, and Sylvia and Jessie were practically invisible, surrounded by so many milliners and dressmakers that they felt like walking pin-cushions. Finally, the last evening arrived, and Sylvia was just thinking of slipping away to the garden when Prue, whose mouth moved as fast as her hands, exclaimed—

"How can you just stand there staring out the window when there's so much to do? We have all these trunks to pack, Maria is in bed with her teeth in terrible shape, and that capable Jane What's-her-name has gone off[152] while I was putting a chamomile poultice on her face. If you're tired, sit down and try on all your shoes, because even though Mr. Peggit has your size, those ridiculous clerks seem to think it's a compliment to send children's sizes to adult women. I'm sure my rain boots were a complete insult."

Sylvia sat down, pulled on one boot, and drifted off into a daydream with the other in her hand, while Prue chatted away like a nonstop machine.

"How I'm supposed to fit all these gowns into that trunk is beyond me. There's a tray for each one, of course; but a ball dress is very hard to manage. I could shake that Antoinette Roche for letting you down at the last minute; and I don't know what you'll do for a maid. You'll have so much dressing to do that you'll be completely worn out, and I want you to look your best at all times, because you'll be meeting everyone. This collar won't hold up well; Clara has no sense, even though her taste is nice. These stockings, though, are a solid choice; I picked them out myself. Please make sure you collect all your things from the laundry. In those fancy hotels, there's a lot of stealing, and you can be so careless."

Here Sylvia came out of her daydream with a sigh that was almost a groan.

"Don't they fit? I knew they wouldn't!" Prue said with a triumphant attitude.

"The boots fit me well, but the hotels don’t; and if it wouldn’t be ungrateful, after all you’ve done, I would love to burn this room full of clothing and walk calmly to my new home by its light."

As if just the thought of such a terrible situation drained her of all her energy, Miss Yule suddenly sat down in the trunk next to her. Luckily, it was[153] nearly full, but she looked pretty ridiculous sitting there with the collar in one hand, the hose in the other, and the ball gown draped over her lap like a fainting lady. She said, with an urgent seriousness that shifted abruptly from sad to funny by the end of her speech—

"Sylvia, if I’ve ever wished for anything in this world full of disappointments, it’s that your wedding will be completely ordinary, because every friend and family member you have is expecting it. Please give me the comfort of knowing that everyone was surprised and happy; because if the expression were graceful (which it’s not, and it’s only suggested by my struggles with those dressmakers), I would say I’ve been on edge until it’s all over. Goodness! and I really am, because here are three still on the floor and one in my shoe." Prue paused to find the right figure of speech she had chosen, and Sylvia said—

"If we have everything else the way you want it, would you mind if we didn’t go on the journey?"

"Of course I should. Everyone goes on a wedding trip; it's part of the ceremony. If two carriages and two bridal couples don't leave here tomorrow, I'll feel like all my effort was wasted."

"I'll go, Prue, I'll go; and you'll be happy. But I thought we could leave from here in style, and then sneak away on a quieter trip. I'm so tired that the thought of partying for a whole month, like Mark and Jessie plan to do, makes me nervous."

It was Prue's turn to groan now, and she did so unhappily. But Sylvia had never asked for a favor without getting it, and this wasn't the time to deny her anything, so pride gave way to sisterly love, and Prue said[154] with acceptance, as she got to work more energetically than ever, because she had wasted five precious minutes—

"Do whatever you want, dear, you won't be stopped on your last day at home. Ask Geoffrey, and if you're happy, I'm happy."

Before Sylvia could thank her sister, there was a tap and a voice asking—

"Can I come in?"

"If you can get in," replied Prue, quickly changing her plan as she stuffed the collar into a bag and the hose into a hatbox.

Moor paused at the entrance in a manly jumble, wondering how one little person could need so much fabric.

"Can I borrow Sylvia for a bit? A little fresh air will do her good, and I want her to be bright and blooming for tomorrow, otherwise young Mrs. Yule will outshine young Mrs. Moor."

"What a considerate person you are, Geoffrey. Take her and enjoy, but please put on a shawl, Sylvia, and don't stay out too late, because a bride with a cold is the saddest sight."

Glad to be free, Sylvia left and, dropping the shawl as soon as she was out of Prue's sight, walked back and forth along the garden paths with her lover's arm around her. After hearing her wish and agreeing wholeheartedly, Moor asked—

"Where should we go? Just tell me what you’d like most and you’ll have it. You might not want to accept many gifts from me, but I know you’ll take this pleasure from me."

"You give me yourself, which is more than I deserve. But I’d love for you to take me to your favorite place. Don’t tell me where it is, let it be a surprise."[155]

"I will, it's already decided, and I know you will be happy with it. Is there any other wish you want fulfilled, any doubt that needs clearing up, or any regret you’re holding back that I should be aware of? Tell me, Sylvia, because if there's ever going to be trust between us, it’s now."

As he spoke, the urge to confess her love for Adam grew stronger within her, but along with that urge came a thought that changed how she wanted to express that feeling. Moor was both sensitive and proud; wouldn’t knowing this ruin the friendship that meant so much to both of them? He would never hear it from Warwick, and from her, he would only receive a half-hearted confession, allowing him to love both his friend and wife without any worries. Few of us can always control our rebellious nature that often betrays us and then makes us feel guilty; not everyone can weigh the moment and the action that either curses or blesses it. Where can we find a life that hasn't had a turning point when a fleeting emotion determined significant outcomes, for better or worse? At that moment, such an emotion struck Sylvia, and another temptation, disguised as generosity, pushed her toward another mistake, because once the first step is taken, a second one inevitably follows.

"I have no desires, no regrets, just the lingering doubt about my own instability and the fear that I might fail to make you happy. But I want to share something with you. I’m not sure if you’ll care about it or if it’s even necessary to mention, but when you said there should be trust between us, I felt the need for you to know that I had loved someone before I loved you."

He didn’t see her face; he just heard her soft voice. He wasn’t thinking about Adam, whom she had known for such a brief time and who was already off-limits. He only imagined she was talking about some young lover who had won her heart. While he smiled at the sweet sense of honor behind her honest confession, he said, without any coldness or curiosity in his tone or expression—

"No need to explain, dear. I’m not jealous of anyone who came before me. You can be sure of this, because if I couldn’t share such a big heart with someone who will never take my place, then I wouldn’t deserve it."

"That's so typical of you! Now I feel totally relaxed."

He glanced down at her as she walked next to him, thinking that of all the brides he had ever seen, his own looked the least like one.

"I always thought you would be a passionate lover, Sylvia. That you would be excited, cheerful, and lively at a time like this. But you are so quiet, so absorbed, and so different from your former self that I’m starting to think I don’t really know you at all."

"You will eventually. I’m naturally passionate and restless, but I’m also very sensitive to all kinds of influences, whether personal or otherwise. If you were different from your calm, sunny self, I would change too. I’m quiet because I feel like I’m in this nice state, half-awake, half-dreaming, and I don’t want to wake up from it. I’m tired of the past, satisfied with the present, and I’m leaving the future to you."

"It will be a happy one if I can make it that way, and tomorrow you will give me the precious chance to try."

"Yes," she said, and thinking about the serious promises to be made then, she added thoughtfully, "I think I love, I know I respect, I will try to obey. Can I do more?"

Well for them both if they could have known that friendship is love's twin, and the gentle sisters are too often mistaken[157] for each other. Sylvia was innocently deceiving both her lover and herself by wrapping her friendship in the guise her lost love had worn, forgetting that the wanderer might return and claim its own, leaving the other to suffer for the borrowed warmth. They didn’t know this, and walked peacefully together in the summer night, planning the new life as they went, and when they parted, Moor pointed to a young moon hanging in the sky.

"Look, Sylvia, our honeymoon has begun."

"Hope you have a great day!"

"It will be, and when the anniversary of this joyful night comes around, it will still be shining. God bless my little wife."

Sylvia was woken up on her wedding morning by a[158] curious choking sound, and when she sat up, she saw Prue crying over her as if her heart was shattered.

"What’s going on? Is Geoffrey sick? Has all the silver been stolen? Can’t the Bishop come?" she asked, puzzled by what disaster could make her sister cry at such a hectic time.

Prue held Sylvia in her arms, rocking back and forth as if she were still a baby, letting out a flow of words and tears all at once.

"Nothing has happened; I came to see you and broke down because it's the last time I’ll get to do this. I've been awake all night, thinking about you and everything you've meant to me since I first held you in my arms nineteen years ago and said you should be mine. My little Sylvia, I've let so many things slip, and now I see them all clearly; I've made you anxious with my behavior and haven't been patient enough with yours; I've been selfish even about your wedding, and it won't be the way you want it; you'll hold it against me in your heart, and I’ll hate myself for it when you’re gone, never to be my care and comfort again. And—oh, my dear, my dear, what will I do without you?"

This unexpected gesture from her ordinary sister[159] affected Sylvia more than the most emotional expressions from anyone else. It reminded her of all the past devotion, the future loneliness of Prue's life, and she embraced her neck, tearless but very tender.

"I will never blame you, and I’ll always love and appreciate everything you’ve done for me, my dear old girl. Don’t be sad about me or think that I’ll forget you, because you will never be abandoned; I’ll be back very soon, almost as much your Sylvia as before. Mark will live on one side, and I’ll live on the other, and we’ll be happy and comfortable together. And who knows, maybe once we’re both out of your way, you’ll start to think about yourself and marry too."

At this, Prue started to laugh uncontrollably and shouted, with even more than her usual lack of clarity—

"I have to tell you, it was really strange! I didn’t want to, because you kids would tease me; but now I will to make you laugh, since they say it’s bad luck to cry over a bride. My dear, that lame Mr. MacGregor, when I came in with some of my nice broth last week (Hugh is such a klutz, and he’s so restless, I took it myself), after he had eaten every single drop in front of me, wiped his mouth and asked me to marry him."

"And you wouldn't, Prue?"

"Bless me, kid, how could I? I have to take care of my poor dear dad, and he’s not pleasant at all, you know, but would wear me out in a week. I did feel sorry for him, though, when I turned him down, with a napkin around his neck, and he tapped his vest with a spoon so funny when he offered me his heart, as if it were something delicious."

"That’s hilarious! What made him do it, Prue?"[160]

"He said he watched the preparations from his window and got so interested in weddings that he wanted one for himself. He felt drawn to me because I was so understanding. That means being a good nurse and cook, my dear. I get these sick gentlemen, and I won't be a servant to any man as demanding and difficult as Mr. Mac, as my brother calls him. It's not very respectful, but I like to clear my head by saying it right now."

"Forget the old soul, Prue, and go have your breakfast in peace, because there's a lot to do, and no one is allowed to dress me but you, my dear."

At this, Prue broke down again and cried over her sister as if, despite the warning, brides were like plants that needed a lot of watering.

The sight of the troubled Maria, her face still partially hidden by the chamomile comforter, along with the news that the waiters had arrived and were "ordering around dreadful," prompted Prue to put away her handkerchief and head down to flip the situation in every possible way.

The idea of the wedding breakfast made the usual meal seem ridiculous. Everyone was in a rush, everyone was really excited, and no one but Prue and the guys in color did anything to help. Sylvia went from room to room saying goodbye like the child who had played there for so long. But each room looked unfamiliar in its festive setup, and the old house seemed to have already forgotten her. She spent an hour with her father, dropped by to see Mark in the studio where he was saying goodbye to the joys of being single and preparing for the challenges of marriage with a calming smoke, and then Prue took her away.

The pain she went through during that long bathroom visit is too much for words to describe, as Prue was more fussy than ever. But Sylvia handled it patiently as a final sacrifice because her sister still had a kind heart, and she laughed and cried over her efforts until everything was complete. Once it was done, she looked at the result with thoughtful satisfaction.

"You’re so sweet, my dear, and wonderfully calm. You really surprise me. I always thought you’d be in a panic on your wedding day, so I got my vinaigrette ready. Keep your hands just like that, with the handkerchief and bouquet; it looks so effortless and elegant. Oh dear, what a scene I’ve made of myself! But I won’t cry anymore, not even during the ceremony like so many do. Such emotional outbursts are really in poor taste, and I’m going to stay strong, completely strong, so if you hear anyone sniffle, you’ll know it’s not me. Now I need to hurry and get into my dress; first, let me smooth you down in your chair. There you go, my darling. Now think calming thoughts and don’t move until Geoffrey comes for you."

Too tired to care about what just happened, Sylvia sat where she was put, feeling like a model bride, and wishing she could fall asleep. Soon, the sound of footsteps that were as quick as Mark's but lighter, woke her up, and forgetting the instructions, she hurried to the door with an expression that models haven't mastered yet.

"Good morning, sweet bride."

"Good morning, handsome groom."

Then they looked at each other and both smiled. However, it seemed like they had switched roles because Moor's normally calm face was now filled with pale excitement, while Sylvia's typically lively expression was calm, and her eyes held the unquestioning contentment of a child who accepts a friendly hand, confident that it will guide them properly.[162]

"Prue wants me to take you up to the upper hall, and when Mr. Deane signals, we should head down immediately. The rooms are packed, and Jessie is all set. Are we ready to go?"

"Just a moment: Geoffrey, are you really happy now?"

"Super happy!"

"Then it will be the most important task of my life to keep you that way," and with a gentle yet serious gesture, Sylvia placed her hand in his, as if giving him both the gift and the role of giver. He held it tightly and never let it go until it became his own.

In the upper hall, they found Mark hovering around Jessie like a tense bee near a fully bloomed flower, while Clara Deane shooed him away, worried he might ruin the effect of this beautiful white rose. For what felt like ages—ten minutes—the five of them stood together, listening to the noise below and looking at each other until they grew tired of the sight and scent of orange blossoms, wishing the whole event was behind them. But as soon as they heard a significant "Hem!" and saw a white glove beckoning from the bottom of the stairs, everyone became flustered. Moor turned even paler, and Sylvia felt his heart pounding against her hand. She was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to run away and say "No" again; Mark looked like he was bracing himself for something serious, and Jessie whispered weakly—

"Oh, Clara, I'm about to pass out!"

"Good grief, what should I do with her? Mark, help her! My sweet girl, take a whiff of this and pull yourself together. For the love of everything, do something, Sylvia, and don't just stand there looking like you've been married every day for a year."

In his excitement, Mark gave his bride a little shake. Its effect was marvelous. She rallied instantly, with a reproachful glance at her crumpled veil and a definite—

"Come quickly, I'm ready to go now."[163]

Down they went, through a wild mix of summer fabrics, black coats, and wedding gloves. None of them ever figured out how they got to their seats; Mark later said that his instinct for self-preservation guided him to the only way out that the situation allowed. The moment the Bishop opened his book, Prue pulled out her handkerchief and cried continuously throughout the whole ceremony, because as important as the formalities were, the "kids" mattered even more.

At Sylvia's request, Mark got married first, and as she stood there listening to the resonant words of the service coming from the Bishop, she attempted to feel reverent and serious but couldn't manage it. She tried to keep her mind from drifting, but kept wondering if that sob was from Prue, if her dad was really affected, and when it would all be over. She tried to keep her eyes timidly on the carpet like she had been instructed, but they kept lifting and looking around despite her wishes.

One of these failures to stick to the path of responsibility nearly caused a disaster. Little Tilly, the gardener's cute daughter, had wandered in from where the servants were, peeking through a long window at the back, and settled herself near the wedding group, looking like a small ballerina in her full white dress and a wreath tossed playfully askew on her curly head. As she stood there, watching the scene with a mix of dignity and amazement, her gaze met Sylvia's. Despite the unusual outfit, the little one recognized her playmate and ran over, burying her head under the veil with a joyful "Peep a bo!" Horror struck Jessie, Mark was on the edge of laughter, and Moor looked utterly confused. But Sylvia pulled the little troublemaker close and whispered a warning, and there she stayed, content to play by "pooring" the silvery dress, smelling the flowers, and staring at the Bishop.

After this, everything went well. The gloves came off easily, the rings went on without a hitch; no one cried except Prue, no one laughed except Tilly; the brides were admired, the grooms were envied; the ceremony was said to be impressive, and when it wrapped up, a wave of congratulations erupted.

Sylvia always had a pretty jumbled idea of what happened during the next hour. She remembered being kissed until her cheeks felt hot, and shaking hands until her fingers tingled; bowing in response to toasts, and forgetting to answer when addressed by her new name; trying to eat and drink, and realizing that everything tasted like wedding cake; finding herself upstairs hurrying to put on her travel outfit, then downstairs saying goodbye; and when her father hugged her last of all, suddenly realizing with a sharp feeling that she was married and leaving, never to be little Sylvia again.

Prue was completely satisfied because, after the two wedding carriages drove away with handkerchiefs waving from their windows in response to the white flurry on the lawn, Mrs. Grundy, with a pleased smile on her sophisticated face, declared it the most delightful event of the season.

It started with a lovely journey. Day after day they[165] wandered along country roads that took them through beautiful summer scenes, stopping at quaint inns and farmhouses, or resting at noon in a green spot where their four-legged friends dined off the picnic blanket while they enjoyed the less basic food their last hostess had offered. When the scenery got boring, which sometimes happened since Nature doesn’t rearrange herself for any couple, one of them would read aloud or they would sing, while chatting was always a fun way to pass the time, and they appreciated the peaceful moments too. Sometimes they walked a mile or two, raced down a hill, rustled through a grain field, strolled into an orchard, or enjoyed the fruits from hedges along the way, as carefree as the squirrels on the wall or the cheerful brown bees feasting at "The Clover-top." They made friends with sheep in meadows, cows by the brook, travelers who were either grumpy or friendly, farmers with a solid sense that made their conversations as hearty as the soil they worked in; school kids running around barefoot, and various women, from the plump housewife who instantly welcomed them with motherly warmth to the grim, unfriendly spinster with "No Admittance" written all over her face.

To Moor, the world was lit up with a purple glow that rarely graces it but once for each of us; the journey felt like a wedding march, made beautiful by the summer and filled with joy; his young wife was the queen of women, and he was equal to the gods because he was no longer aware of any needs. Sylvia couldn't help but be happy, for having found boundless freedom and love, she had nothing to regret and saw marriage as a pleasant change that simply altered her name while giving her a protector, friend, and lover all in one. She was therefore her sweetest and most genuine self, wonderfully obedient, and charmingly cheerful; she was engaged with everything around her and overflowing with excitement when the last days of the week revealed the secret that they were headed to the mountains.

Loving the sea so much, her few trips away from home had given her only ocean experiences, and the added sense of novelty made the feast her husband had arranged for her even more delightful. It came to her not only when she could appreciate it the most, but also when she needed it the most, calming her restlessness, awakening the nobler aspects that governed her life at different times, and preparing her for what was ahead. Choosing the quietest paths, Moor showed her the wonders of a region whose wild beauty and grandeur made its memory a lifelong treasure. Day after day, they followed mountain trails, observing the changes in an ever-shifting landscape, watching the dawn tint the rocky faces of these giants, worn by centuries of storms, the midday light linger over them until they seemed to smile, the evening purple wrap them in its splendor, or the moonlight touch them with its magic; until Sylvia, always gazing up at what filled[167] her heart with reverence and awe, was encouraged to look beyond, and through the friendship beside her, discovered that human love brings us closer to the Divine, and is the most reliable way to reach that great goal.

The last week of their honeymoon flew by, as they had promised to go back soon. They saved the best part of their trip for last, and after an unforgettable day, Sylvia sat in the sunset, taking in the breathtaking view of a scene that was beyond description, because words just can’t capture it all. Soon, Moor joined her and asked—

"Will you join a party to the great ice palace and see three acres of snow in August, shaped by a waterfall into a cathedral, as white if not as long-lasting as any marble?"

"I’m really comfortable here, so I’d prefer not to move. But you should go since you enjoy these amazing things, and I’ll just relax until you return."

"Then I’ll take my leave and let you think about the joys of the day, which for a few hours has made you one of the most noteworthy women this side of the Rocky Mountains. There’s a bugle at the house that I’ll take with me, and now and then I’ll send a lovely reminder to make sure you don’t wander off and lose yourself."

Sylvia sat for half an hour, then, feeling overwhelmed by the vastness of the landscape, tried to relax her mind by looking at the beauty around her. As she walked down the path the sightseers had taken, she found herself in a rocky basin, shaped like a cup for a small pool, so clear and bright it looked like a diamond set in black. A thin fringe of grass had gathered around its edge, with russet moss, purple heather, and delicate white flowers,[168] like a group of tiny hill people having fun by some magical well. The spot drew her in, and remembering not to wander off, she sat down beside the path to wait for her husband’s return.

As she leaned over the pool to sprinkle the thirsty little group around her, she was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Looking up to see who was disturbing her peace, she spotted a man pausing at the top of the path opposite the one she had taken. He appeared to be examining her, the only person in the dell, before making his way down. But as she turned to face him, he threw aside his backpack, hat, and walking stick, and to her astonishment, it was Adam Warwick. He came down to her with such joy and urgency that she barely had time to recognize him and call out before he swept her into an embrace that was as tender as it was irresistible. In that moment, she felt nothing but the overwhelming happiness that seemed to transport her into the promised land she had long believed in, yearned for, and thought she had lost forever. Soon, she heard his voice, breathless and eager, yet so affectionate that it felt like a different voice altogether.

"My darling! Did you really think I would never come?"

"I thought you had forgotten about me; I knew you were married. Adam, put me down."

But he just pulled her in closer and laughed a joyful laugh that made Sylvia feel the truth before he even said it.

"How can I get married if I love you? How can I forget you, even if I never told you this? Sylvia, I know a lot about what’s happened. Geoffrey's failure made me brave enough to hope for success, and that silent promise we made with a glance so long ago has meant just as much to you as it has to me."[169]

"Adam, you’re both right and wrong—you don’t know everything—let me explain," began Sylvia, as these signs of ignorance jolted her back to her senses with a shock of realization and concern. But Warwick was as completely happy as he had been in his self-restraint, and he mentally and physically took control of her with an authority that was too comforting and overwhelming to resist immediately.

"You won't tell me anything until I've explained why I've seemed so quiet. I need to get that off my chest first, then I’ll listen to you until morning if you want. I've earned this moment after a year of hard work, so let me enjoy it with you without any distractions."

The old charm had lost none of its impact, as absence seemed to have given it even more power, confirming that initial hope to fill it with renewed warmth. Sylvia allowed him to keep her close, feeling he deserved that small reward for a year's effort, deciding to give him a few more moments of blissful ignorance before revealing his loss and comforting him, confident that her husband would find no disloyalty in a compassion that was nearly as deep and selfless as his would have been if he had known their secret. Only briefly pausing to take the seat she had just vacated, Warwick removed her hat and, turning her face to his, looked at her with such genuine and complete satisfaction that her wavering resolve was made firm by a single glance. As he began to recount their past, she forgot everything except for his rapid words and the expression she observed, so beautifully transformed and softened that it felt as if she had never seen him before, or was seeing him again as we sometimes do with familiar figures glorified in dreams. In the fewest, kindest words, Warwick told her about Ottila, the promise, and the goodbye; then, as if the dearer topic deserved more elaboration, he lingered on it like someone enjoying the anticipation of a warm welcome at a friend's door.

"The night we walked together by the river—what a headstrong yet delightful companion I had that day, and how much I enjoyed it all!—that night I started to think that Geoffrey loved you, Sylvia, and I was happy about it. A month later, I was certain of it, and that knowledge became the greatest burden of my life because I loved you too. How bold of you to sneak into my heart and take over when I thought I had locked the door after my last guest left! I believed I had put away the feelings that nearly destroyed me once, but look how wrong I was—the false love only made me more open to the real thing. You never seemed like a child to me, Sylvia, because you have an old soul in a young body, and your father's struggles and temptations reflect in you. That initially attracted me. I liked to watch you, to ask questions, to figure out the human puzzle for which I had found a hint from its creator's words. I liked your honesty and simplicity, your bravery and unpredictability. Even your flaws were appealing to me; pride, will, and impulsiveness were old friends of mine, and I enjoyed seeing them take on a different form in you. At first, you were a curiosity, then an amusement, then essential. I wanted you, not just sometimes, but all the time. You added flavor and depth to my life; whether you spoke or stayed quiet, were sweet or sour, friendly or distant, I was content just being near you, always leaving with an inner satisfaction that nothing else could give me. This love was so different from the previous one that I tricked myself for a little while—not for long, though. I quickly realized what had happened to me and soon felt that this affection was good because I forgot my turbulent and lesser self and felt my nobler side renewed by the innocent companionship you offered me. I wanted you, but it wasn't just the touch of hands or lips, the gentle meeting of eyes, or the tones of tenderness I desired most. It was that something beyond my grasp, vital and pure, invisible yet irresistible; that something, whether it was heart, soul, or mind, that drew me to you with a warm and genuine attraction. My Sylvia, that was love, and when it came to me, I welcomed it, confident that whether I experienced its fulfillment or not, I would be a better man for having embraced it, even for a moment. Why are you turning your face away? Well, hide it if you must, but lean here like you did so long ago."

She let him rest it on his shoulder, still sensing that Moor was the kind of person who looked deeper into things and acknowledged that she did well by giving such a pure love a happy moment before it ended, just as she would have cherished Warwick if he were dying.

"On that September evening, as I sat alone, I had been thinking about what could be and what should be. I had decided that I would leave for Geoffrey's sake. He was better suited than I am to have you, being so gentle and fully ready to embrace married life. I was rough around the edges, a drifter, caught up in my own ambitions and plans; how could I dare take care of such a delicate soul like you? I thought you didn't care for me; I knew that knowing about my love would only ruin his happiness, so it was best to leave right away and let him enjoy the happiness he truly deserved. Just then, you came to me, as if the wind had blown my wish into my arms. Such a tender touch! It almost melted my resolve; it felt wrong not to take the one thing I wanted when it showed up so perfectly. I longed to break that idle promise, which I made when I was full of myself and was justly punished for my foolishness; but you asked me to keep it, and I did. You couldn't understand my struggle, and when I sat before you so still, perhaps looking grim and cold, you didn't know how I was battling with my restless self. I’m not really generous because letting go of something I treasure always feels like a fight, and I often find myself losing. For the first time, I didn’t dare meet your eyes until you looked into mine with that innocent, longing expression, which has often made me feel like we stood stripped of our bodies, soul to soul."

"Tongue I could control, heart I could not. Up it sprang stronger than will, swifter than thought, and answered you. Sylvia, if there had been even a hint of self-awareness in those steady eyes of yours, one bit of modesty, fear, or concern, I would have claimed you as mine. There wasn’t; and even though you let me read your face like an open book, you never realized the depth of feeling in it. Innocent heart, that loved and hadn’t learned to recognize it. I saw this instantly, recognized that a few more moments like this would reveal it to you too, and felt more strongly than before that if ever the right thing for you, the generous act toward Geoffrey were to be done, it should be then. Because that was the one moment when your half-awakened heart could peacefully fall asleep again, if I didn’t disturb it, and dream on until Geoffrey woke it, to find a kinder master than I could be."

"It couldn’t, Adam; you completely awoke it, and it called out for you for so long, so desperately, oh, why didn’t you come to respond to it sooner?"

"How could I possibly wait until the year was over? Wasn't I obeying you by keeping that awful promise? God knows I've made many mistakes, but I think the most foolish was that promise; the most shortsighted, that belief. What right did I have to tie my tongue or try to control love? Will I ever learn to do my own work right and not interfere with the Lord's? Sylvia, please take this arrogant and controlling part of me out in time, before I stumble blindly after you've become mine, just as I have before. Now, let me finish before Mark comes to find us. I left, you know, singing the farewell I couldn't say, and for nine months, I kept myself sane and steady with whatever work I could find. If any of my work is blessed, it will be that, for I put the best effort of my life into it. Even though I had renounced you, I kept my love; let it burn day and night, fed by my labor and my prayers, hoping that this selfish heart of mine might be reshaped into a better vessel for a lasting treasure. In May, far in the West, I met a woman who knew Geoffrey; she had seen him recently and learned that he had lost you. She was his cousin, I was his friend, and through our mutual concern for him, this confidence naturally developed. When she told me this, hope ignited within me, and all sorts of wild fantasies filled my mind. Love is proud, and I nurtured the belief that even I could succeed where Geoffrey failed. You were so young; it seemed unlikely that you could be easily won by anyone else, especially if such a man had asked in vain, and I gradually became convinced that you had understood, had loved, and were still waiting for me. A month felt like an eternity to wait, but I didn’t allow myself a moment of despair, and soon turned my face toward Cuba, finding renewed hope along the way. Gabriel came with me; he told me how Ottila had looked for me, and when she couldn't find me, had gone back to prepare for my arrival. How she had tried to be everything I desired, and how unworthy I was of her. That was fine, but hearing your name was even better, and through some close questioning, I got the details of a scene he remembered, because Ottila had scolded him sharply for revealing things to you. Knowing you so well, I pieced together a lot from small things that seemed insignificant to Gabriel. I felt that your regard for me, if nothing deeper, had sparked your interest in them; and from the information given to me by Faith and Gabriel, I built myself a home, which I've lived in as a guest until now, when I know myself as its master and welcome its dear mistress, my darling."

He leaned down to greet her warmly, but Sylvia stopped him.

"Not yet, Adam! Not yet! Go ahead, before it’s too late to say what you want."

He thought it was some girl-like hesitation, and although he smiled at it, he respected it, because this same shyness amidst all her quirks had always been one of the things that attracted him to her.

"Shy thing! I will win you over yet, and draw you to me as easily as I got the bird to hop into my hand and eat. You mustn't be afraid of me, Sylvia, or else I might become tyrannical; I can't stand fear, and I enjoy stomping on anything that doesn’t face me boldly, confident that it will receive its due just as these little mosses sit among the clouds and find a spring to sustain them even in the rock. Now I will wrap this up quickly, even though it feels nice to sit here no longer feeling like a lonely outcast. I'll spare you the dramatic scenes I went through with Ottila, because I’d rather not think of my Cleopatra while I hold 'my fine spirit Ariel' in my arms. She did her best, but had I still been free, I could never have married her. She[175] is one of those untamable souls that only God can lead; I wouldn’t dare, even when I thought I loved her, because as much as I love power, I love truth more. I told her this, and I heard prayers, reproaches, threats, and accusations; I tried to leave her gently, and then I was ready to face my fate with you. But I wasn’t going to get my way that easily. I had fallen into the trap and wasn’t to escape until I had endured the punishment. Like that other wandering Christian, I cried out, submitted, and became more humble for it. I had to wait a bit before the ship sailed; I wouldn’t stay at El Labarinto, Gabriel's home, because Ottila was there; and even though the fever raged in Havana, I felt safe in my previously unbroken health. I went back there and paid the price; for weeks of suffering taught me that I couldn’t mess around with this body of mine, no matter how sturdy it seemed."

"Oh, Adam, who looked after you? Where did you rest and struggle all that time?"

"Don't worry about that; I wasn't neglected. A sister from the 'Sacred Heart' took great care of me, and a hospital feels like a palace when you don't know or care where you are. It was tough for me, I think; but determined to survive, I pushed through. Death looked my way, showed some mercy, and moved on. There's a Haitian saying that should give you some comfort if I’m just a shadow of my former self: 'A lean freeman is better than a fat slave.' There’s the first smile I’ve seen; but I think my next bit of news will bring a frown. When I was well enough to get out, I found out that Ottila got married. You probably heard the rumors, but not the name, since Gabriel's and mine were confusingly mixed up in many people's minds because of my sudden disappearance and his appearance as the groom. It was typical of her—she had prepared everything for me as if she was sure I was coming back to fill the place I left, hoping that her confidence would have an impact on me. It did test me a lot, but once an experience is behind you, it’s as if it never happened in terms of regret or indecision; so wedding dresses and demanding women didn’t affect me. Being left as a bride without a groom stung her fierce pride more than many actual shameful incidents would have. People would pity her, see what she lost, and mock her foolish choices. Gabriel loved her the way she wanted to be loved, blindly and passionately; few knew about our later relationship, many knew about our engagement. So why not let the world believe I was the rejected person coming back for a last chance? I had been avoiding everyone I used to know because I hated the place; no one recognized me at the hospital, she thought I was gone, so she boldly took the step, married the poor guy, left Cuba before I was myself again, and achieved an empty victory that I’ll never disturb."

"How strange! But I can believe it of her; she looked like a woman who would take any risk. So, you came back, Adam, to find me? What brought you here, hoping so much while knowing so little?"

"Did you ever see me do anything the usual way? Don’t I always go straight for what I want and take the shortest path? It often doesn’t work out, and then I revert to the slower, safer route; but I always try my own method first, just like I instinctively jumped down that slope, as if I were storming a fortress instead of meeting my sweetheart. That’s an old-fashioned word that better men than me have used, so let me use it once. Among the first people I encountered when I arrived was a friend of your father’s; he was driving away in a hurry, but when I caught sight of that familiar face, I thought it was summer travel season, you might be away, and no one else would do; he might know, and I could save time. I asked one question, 'Where are the Yules?' He replied as he drove off, 'The young people are all at the mountains.' That was enough, and feeling pleased with myself for the foresight that would save me hundreds of miles of unnecessary delay, I took off, and for days I’ve been searching for you everywhere on the side of those hills that I know so well. But no Yules had passed, and believing you were on this side, I went straight over, because this seemed like the best route to my love, and here I found her waiting for me along the way. Now Sylvia, are all your doubts answered, your fears calmed, and your heart at peace with mine?"

As the time got closer, Sylvia felt overwhelmed by her task. Warwick was so sure of himself, so happy and affectionate towards her, that it felt like a death sentence to say the harsh words, "It is too late." While she tried to find a way to express everything kindly yet fully, Adam, seeming to pick up on some hint of her struggle, asked with a gentleness that now softened his previous abruptness, making it even more appealing because of the contrast—

"Have I been too arrogant as a lover? Too confident in our happiness, too unaware of my small worth? Sylvia, have I misinterpreted the welcome you've given me?"

"Yes, Adam, totally."

He frowned, his eyes filled with worry, his mood seemed abruptly interrupted, but still, he said with hope—

"You mean that being away has changed you, that you don't love me like you used to, and that pity made you nice? Well, I accept the disappointment, but I won’t give up my desire. What has happened can happen again; let me try once more to win you back[178]. Teach me to be humble, patient, everything I need to be to make myself more important to you. Something’s bothering you, so be honest with me; I've shown you my whole heart, what do you have to show me in return?"

"Just this."

She completely freed herself from his grasp and raised her hand in front of him. He didn’t notice the ring; he believed she was giving him everything he wanted, and with an expression of gratitude, he extended both hands to accept it. Then she realized that waiting was worse than being weak, and even though she was shaking, she spoke up courageously, ending his suspense immediately.

"Adam, I do not love you like I used to, nor can I wish or try to bring it back, because—I am married."

He jumped up as if he’d been shot, and no real bullet from her hand could have shocked him more than those three words. For a moment, he couldn't believe it, but then he accepted it, facing it like a man. Though his face turned pale and his eyes flashed with an emotion that tore at her heart, he asked steadily,—

"To who?"

This was the toughest question of all, because she knew that saying the name would hurt even more because of how much it meant to her. As it hung painfully on her lips, its owner answered for himself. The music from the horn floated up, playing a familiar tune they all loved and had often sung together. Warwick recognized it right away, felt the harsh truth but resisted it, and reached out as if to push it away, exclaiming with real pain on his face and in his voice—

"Oh, Sylvia! It's not Geoff?"

"Yes."

Then, as if all her strength had drained away, she sank down on the mossy edge of the spring and covered her face, feeling that the initial sharpness of a pain like this wasn’t something for anyone else to see. She couldn't tell how many minutes passed; the stillness of the spot was only interrupted by the whisper of the wind, and in that silence, Sylvia found time to be amazed by the calm that washed over her. She had forgotten herself in surprise and sympathy, and still, her only thought was how to comfort Warwick. She had expected some outburst of emotion, some surge of anger or despair, but there was no sigh or sob, no blame or regret from him, and soon she cast a worried glance to see how he was doing. He was standing where she had left him, both hands locked together until they were white from the intense pressure. His eyes were fixed on something far away with a gaze as pleading as it was blind, and through those windows to his soul, he looked out darkly, not in despair; but as if he knew there was help somewhere, and he was waiting for it with a grim patience that was harder to watch than the most raging grief. Sylvia couldn’t stand it, and remembering that she hadn’t confessed yet, seized that moment to do so, driven by an instinct that assured her that sharing her pain would help him bear his own.

She told him everything and finished by saying—

"Hey, Adam, come here and let me try to comfort you."

Sylvia was right; because through the painful confusion that caused a brief loss of hope and courage, compassion reached him like a supportive hand to help him until he found his way back to the light. While she was speaking, she noticed the stillness that had scared her start to fade, and Warwick's[180] entire face flushed and trembled with emotions he could no longer control. But the reaction that followed was something she never expected to see from him, because when she reached out to him with that gentle invitation, she saw his deep eyes fill with tears. Then he fell to his knees before her, and for the first time in her short life, she witnessed that poignant kind of human suffering—a man weeping like a woman.

Warwick was one of those whose passions matched his virtues, completely aligned with the strong body they occupied. In a moment like this, he had only two ways to cope: either through angry denouncement, pleading, and despair, or by embracing the innocence of a child. He had been silently struggling against the first option until Sylvia's words changed everything. He was too natural to feel ashamed of what was not a weakness but a strength, and too wise to reject such a safe way to handle a dangerous grief. So, he finally gave in, letting the healing power of tears extinguish the fire, wash away the initial bitterness, and leave behind only fleeting excuses. This was better, and Sylvia recognized it within herself as she sat quietly and still, gently touching the brown hair spread out on the moss. Her sorrowful comfort was overshadowed by the poignancy of the scene, while the fading sound of the horn rose and fell, truly "a sweet reminder not to stray away and lose herself." An hour ago, it would have been a comforting sound, as peaks echoed the melody and airy voices whispered it until the faintest trace faded away. But now, she let it drift softly, for only she could hear its sad undertone of bitter human tears. To Warwick, it meant so much more; music, the comforter, soothed his aching heart in a way that no human pity could, performing the miracle that turned the friend who seemed to have taken his love into an unknowing Orpheus, who calmed the wild and brought harmony to the man. Soon he felt like himself again, because for those who hold strong virtues with patient determination, no lasting harm can come, no suffering can completely crush, and no temptation can fully overcome them. He stood up with clearer eyes from the stormy tears, feeling twice as strong for daring to embrace his inner child once more. He was humbler and happier knowing that neither vain resentment nor unfair blame had stripped him of his dignity, despite the heavy hour that left him lonely but not diminished.[181]

"I am comforted, Sylvia, so you can be sure of that. And now there's not much left to say, just one thing to do. I won’t see your husband yet, and I’ll leave it to you to decide what’s best to tell him, because, instinctively, I tend to withdraw and heal my wounds alone. But remember that I hold no blame against you, and I truly believe I will find happiness in your happiness. I know if Geoffrey were here, he would understand my need to do this, because he’s felt the same pain I’m feeling now."

Bending down, he pulled her into an embrace that was as different from the other as sadness is from joy. As he held her there, packing all the pain and passion of a year into one brief moment, she heard a soft but incredibly bitter cry—"Oh, my Sylvia! It’s so hard to let you go." Then, with a serious sense of satisfaction that reassured both her and himself, he spoke clearly and loudly—

"Thank God for the compassionate Hereafter, where we can make up for the mistakes we make here."

With that, he left her, never turning back until the burden he had joyfully set down was picked up again. Then, with his staff and hat in hand, he paused on the edge of that granite cup, to[182] him a cup of sorrow, and looked into its depths once more. Clouds were drifting eastward, but in that moment, the sun shone brightly on Warwick's figure, lifting his strong head into a wash of light as he waved to Sylvia with a gesture of strength and good spirits. The look, the action, the memories they stirred within her caused her heart to ache with a sharper pang than mere pity, filling her eyes with tears of helpless regret as she turned her head as if to scold the cheerful noise of the horn. When she looked again, both the figure and the sunshine had vanished, leaving her alone in the shadows.

"No cousin Faith tonight. The rain has stopped her[183] from taking this boat, and she probably won’t come later since she travels alone," said Moor, coming back from a fruitless drive to meet his expected guest one October evening.

"It always rains when I really want something. I feel like I have a lot of bad weather in my life," Sylvia replied sadly.

"Forget about the rain; let’s create our own sunshine and ignore it like kids do."

"I wish I could be a child again; they’re always so happy."

"Let's act like kids, then. Let’s sit down on the rug, pop some corn, crack open nuts, roast apples, and have fun no matter what the weather is like."

Sylvia's face lit up because the fancy pleased her, and she wanted something fresh and enjoyable to take her mind off herself. Looking at her dress, which was oddly matronly for the occasion, she said with a smile—

"I don’t really look like a kid, but I’d love to try to feel like one again if I can."

"Let’s both look and feel as much as we can. You enjoy playing dress-up; go ahead and make a little girl out of yourself while I become a boy and get ready for our fun." [184]

No guy could have looked happier, because Moor had kept a lot of his youthful spirit despite being thirty. His happiness was so contagious that Sylvia started to forget her sadness and rushed off to help. She put on a short, girlish dress meant for climbing around the rocks, made a makeshift apron, and braided her long hair like Morlena Kenwigs, adding butterfly bows at the ends. When she came down, she found her husband in his garden jacket, collar flipped over a ribbon, hair all curly and messy, with a jackknife in hand, sitting on the rug in front of a blazing fire, surrounded by a semicircle of apples, whittling and whistling like a young boy. They looked at each other with joyful compliments, and Moor started by saying—

"Isn't this fun? Now come over and snuggle up next to me, and let's see who can last the longest."

"What would Prue say? And who would recognize the classy Mr. Moor in this big guy? Setting aside dignity and fancy clothes makes you look about eighteen, and I find you very charming," said Sylvia, who looked about twelve herself and was also very charming.

"Here’s a wooden fork for you to help with the roast, while I handle the corn laws and get a vegetable snowstorm ready. What do you want, little girl? You look like you’re craving something."

"I was just thinking that I should have a doll to match your knife. I feel like I would enjoy having a staring fright on my knee and singing Hush-a-by. But I doubt even your magic can create such a thing—can it, my boy?"

"In exactly five minutes, a beautiful doll will show up, even though I haven't seen anything like that in my bachelor pad for years."[185]

With a mysterious announcement, Moor rushed off, stumbling over the ottomans and banging the doors like any boy would. Sylvia poked at the chestnuts and started to forget her worries as she wondered what would come next, driven by the eager curiosity matching the persona she had taken on. Soon, her husband returned, looking cheerful, with raindrops in his hair and a wriggling bundle in his arms. Triumphantly, he unwrapped several layers, revealing little Tilly in her nightgown.

"There’s some magic for you, and a doll worth having; it's one of those that can close its eyes. It was getting ready for bed, but its mom changed her mind and let us borrow it for the night. I told Mrs. Dodd you wanted her and couldn’t wait, so she sent her clothes; but the room is so warm, let the little one play in her nice nightgown."

Sylvia received her beautiful toy with excitement, and Tilly suddenly felt like she was in a baby’s paradise, where beds didn’t exist and fruit and freedom were hers to enjoy. The popcorn popped happily, the nuts danced playfully on the shovel, and the cheerful little embers on the hearth made their presence known as time slipped by effortlessly. Sylvia sang every joyful song she knew, Moor whistled surprising accompaniments, and Tilly danced across the carpet with nut shells on her toes, trying to fill her little dress with “pretty flowers” from the garlands and bouquets. Outside, the wind mourned, the sky cried, and the sea crashed against the shore; but inside, youth, innocence, and love celebrated their joyful party undisturbed.

"How are you feeling now?" asked one friend to the other.

"Pretty good, thanks; and I would feel like little Sylvia again if it weren't for this." [186]

She held up the hand with a single ring on it; but her hand had gotten so thin since she first put it on that the ring would have slipped off if she hadn’t caught it with her fingertip. There was nothing boyish about her companion's face as he said, looking worried—

"If you keep losing weight like this, I’m going to start worrying that your little wife isn’t happy with her older husband. What do you think, dear?"

"She would be a really ungrateful woman if she weren't. I always lose weight as winter approaches, but I'm so reckless. I'll get a guard for my ring tomorrow."

"No need to wait until then; wear this to make me happy, and let Marion's symbol show that you are mine."

With a seriousness that affected her more than receiving such a precious token, Moor removed a signet ring from his watchguard and, with some effort, placed it onto Sylvia's finger, serving as a strong protector for that other ring which seemed so fragile. She flinched slightly and looked up at him, sensing that his touch was firmer than gentle, and his face bore a commanding look that was rarely seen; for instinct, subtler than perception, influenced both his actions and expression. Then her gaze fell and focused on the dark stone with the single letter engraved on its tiny oval, which took on a deeper meaning for her as her husband held it there, asserting his claim with that clear "Mine." She didn’t say anything, but something in her demeanor caused the tension on his forehead to ease as he looked at her small hand resting calmly in his, and he said, half teasingly, half seriously—

"Sorry if I hurt you, but you know I'm not done trying to win you over; and until you love me completely, I can't feel that my wife truly belongs to me."[187]

"I’m still so young, you know; when I’m an adult, I can give you a woman’s love; for now, it’s just a girl’s, as you say. Wait for me, Geoffrey, just a little longer, because I really am trying my best to be everything you want me to be."

Something brought tears to her eyes and made her lips quiver, but in a breath, the smile returned, and she added cheerfully—

"How can I help but be serious sometimes and lose weight, with so many chores weighing me down and such a demanding, controlling husband stressing me out? Don’t I look like the most miserable wife?"

She definitely didn't as she shook the popper with laughter, glancing back at him, her cheeks glowing from the firelight, her eyes filled with cheer.

"Keep that look for everyday use, and I'm happy. I don't want a dull Griselda, but the little girl who once said she was always happy with me. If you can promise me that, then having won my Leah, I can work and wait even longer for my Rachel. Bless the baby! What has she done to herself now?"

Tilly had hidden behind the sofa after exploring every chair and couch, checking out everything she could reach on the shelf and table, hugging the statue of Hebe in the corner, playing a tune on the piano, and choking herself with the stopper from the fragrance bottle. A sad wail gave away her hiding spot, and she came out with a pair of nutcrackers, hurt fingers, and a look of great mental and physical distress. However, her troubles disappeared as soon as the feast was announced, and she performed a wobbly solo dance around the table, mixed with struggles against her long nightgown and quick grabs at any unprotected food that caught her eye.[188]

No ordinary table service would work for the hosts of this cozy gathering. The corn was piled in a bronze urn, the nuts in a stylish basket, the apples were on a plate of uniquely ancient china, and the water turned into wine from a purple jug made of Bohemian glass. The feast was laid out on the rug like it was a flowery table, and all the lights were on, filling the room with a festive glow. Prue would have thrown up her hands in shock, like the bewildered masterpiece she was, but Mark would have loved the picturesque scene and sketched a match to the Golden Wedding. Moor, wielding a wooden fork, played host; Sylvia, resting her arm, fed corn after corn to a baby mouth that always eagerly opened for more; and Tilly lounged comfortably between them, warming her little feet while she ate and chatted with the flames.

The clock struck eight, the party at its peak, when the door swung open and a servant announced—

"Ms. Dane and Mr. Warwick."

An impressive pause followed, broken by a crow from Tilly, who took this lucky moment to bury one hand in the nuts and with the other grab the big red apple that had been denied her. The sound seemed to shake off the stunned surprise that had settled over everyone, bringing both the host and hostess to their feet, the former exclaiming, heartily—

"Welcome, friends, to a contemporary celebration and the heart of the Happy Family!"

"I’m sorry I’m so late," said Miss Dane. "I got held up at the time we agreed on and gave up waiting, but Mr. Warwick showed up, and we left together. Please don’t worry about us, just let us enjoy the game with you."

"You and Adam are guests who never arrive too early or[189] too late. We're just playing kids tonight, so let's all rewind a dozen years and have fun together. Sylvia, this is our cousin; Faith here is your new family member. Please care for each other like little ones are supposed to do."

A brief commotion broke out as people shook hands, removed their wraps, and some semblance of order was restored in the room. Then everyone settled down and started chatting. With complete disregard for the short dress and long braids of her shy hostess, Miss Dane brought up and talked about various topics of shared interest, while Sylvia tried to keep her gaze from drifting to the mirror across the room, which reflected the images of her husband and his friend.

Warwick sat up straight in the comfy chair, since he never slouched; and Moor, still keeping up his act, was perched on the armrest, chatting away with youthful energy. With every sense unusually sharp, Sylvia found herself listening to both guests at the same time, managing her own part in one conversation so well that any brief pauses were just seen as normal awkwardness. She could never recall what she and Miss Dane discussed; however, she never forgot what the other two talked about. The first words she heard were from her husband.

"You see, I've started to live for myself, Adam."

"I also see that it works really well for you."

"Better than with you, because you don't seem like your old self, even though June made you happy, right?"

"If freedom is happiness, it did."

"Are you still by yourself?"

"More than ever."

Sylvia lost her next words when she saw Moor's hand on Adam's shoulder, and, for the first time she could remember, Warwick didn't meet his friend's gaze openly. Instead, he looked down at the ground, running his hand back and forth over his lips as if trying to steady them. It was a gesture she recognized well; although he could keep his eyes clear and his voice steady, that half-hidden mouth of his sometimes betrayed him, trembling like a woman's. The sight and the realization made her heart race with the question, "Why has he come?" Miss Dane's repeated question pulled her from a troubling memory, and as that kind lady launched into another long sentence to ease her young hostess’s discomfort, she heard Moor say—

"You've spent way too much time alone, Adam; I'm sure of it, because no one can be isolated for too long without developing that strange look you have. What have you been up to?"

"Battling my stubborn self, and gearing up for another struggle with the Adversary, in whatever form he might take."

"And now you've come to your friend for the comfort that even the proudest heart craves when it feels the loneliest. You'll get it. Stay with us, Adam, and remember that no matter what changes happen to me, my home will always be yours."

"I get it, Geoffrey. I wanted to see you happy before I leave again, and I’d love to stay with you for a day or so if you’re sure that—that she would be okay with it."

Moor laughed and tugged at a strand of the brown mane, as if to provoke the lion into showing the spirit he seemed to have lost.

"Why are you so hesitant to say the new name? 'She' will appreciate it, I promise, because she turns my friends into hers. Sylvia, come here and let Adam know he’s welcome; he has the nerve to question that. Come and chat about the good old days while I do the same with Faith."

She went, feeling anxious inside but keeping her cool on the outside, as she relied on one of those ordinary tasks that we happily do in such moments and secretly appreciate. She had often thought about where they would meet next and how she would act during such a difficult time. She never expected he would arrive like this, or that a hearth-brush would help her hide her feelings. But that’s how it turned out, and an involuntary smile crossed her face as she casually said, while tidily brushing the nutshells out of sight—

"You know you're always welcome, Mr. Warwick. 'Adam's Room,' as we call it, is always available, and Geoffrey was hoping for you just yesterday."

"I’m sure he’s happy that I’m here, but can I count on you feeling the same way? Should I stay?"

He leaned forward as he spoke, with an eager yet submissive look that Sylvia didn't dare to meet. In her anxiety to keep her composure, she forgot that to this listener, every word spoken became a truth, because his own were always so.

"Why not, if you can handle our simple life? We’re already like a Darby and Joan, even though we don’t look that way tonight, I admit."

Men rarely grasp the tricks women instinctively use to hide many natural feelings that they can't control or are too afraid to admit. To Warwick, Sylvia appeared almost indifferent, her words a playful response to the true meaning of his question, her smile one of calm greeting. Her behavior created an[192]immediate shift in him, and when he spoke again, he was the Warwick from a year ago.

"I paused, Mrs. Moor, because I've sometimes heard young wives say that their husbands' friends are troublemakers, and I definitely don't want to be one."

This speech, delivered with chilly seriousness, made Sylvia as calm and composed as it was. She set her ally aside, looked directly at Warwick, and said with a mix of dignity and friendliness that even the pinafore couldn't diminish—

"Please consider yourself a specially invited guest, now and always. Never hesitate; come and go as freely as you used to, because nothing needs to change between the three of us just because two of us have one home to offer you."

"Thanks; and now that the fireplace is really clean, can I offer you a chair?"

The familiar spark was in his eye, the usual resolve around his mouth, and the familiar sarcastic smile on his lips as Warwick offered her the seat, with a bow that felt ironic to her. She took a seat, but when she tried to think of a safe and easy topic to start the conversation, every idea vanished; even her memories and imagination felt like they were betraying her; she couldn’t come up with any witty comments, and no pleasant thoughts came to her aid, leaving her speechless. Just as the awkward silence was about to become uncomfortable, Tilly came to the rescue. Undeterred by her plain outfit, she positioned herself in front of Warwick and, brushing her hair out of her eyes, stared at him with a curious look and cheeks as red as her apple. She seemed to find what she needed in an instant, and climbing onto his knee, she confidently took hold of his watch and examined his brown beard with curiosity as it contrasted with the white flash of his teeth when Warwick beamed his warmest smile.[193]

"This reminds me of the night you fed the sparrow from your hand. Do you remember, Adam?" Sylvia looked and spoke like her old self again.

"I rarely forget anything. But as nice as that hour was, this means more to me, because the bird flew away, but the baby stays and provides me with what I need."

He wrapped the child closer in his arms, rested his dark head on the bright one, and took the little feet in his hand with a fatherly expression that made Tilly pat his cheek and start excitedly telling a nursery tale, which ended in a sudden yawn, reminding Sylvia that one of her guests was staying up late.

"What happens next?" asked Warwick.

"Now I lay down here in the trib," answered Tilly, stretching herself over his arm with a big yawn.

Warwick kissed the slightly parted rosy lips and appeared reluctant to say goodbye to the serene baby, as he took the shawl Sylvia had brought and wrapped the sleepy bundle himself. While he was occupied, she took a quick glance at him, having previously looked without really seeing. The familiar face she recognized was thinner and darker, but stronger than ever; yet it was neither sad nor stern, as the serious gentleness that had once been a fleeting expression now seemed to be a regular part of him. This, along with the hand at his lips and the slowly falling eyes, were the only signs of the difficult experiences he had been through. Born for struggle and resilience, he seemed to have bravely embraced the valuable lessons of hardship and grown richer from his losses.

Those who are quick to suffer also notice the signs of suffering in others right away; that rapid observation gave Sylvia all the insight she had longed for, but it also filled her heart with a deeper pity because she felt powerless to help. Tilly's[194] heavy head hung low between her supporter and the light as they left the room, but in the dimly lit hall, a few warm tears fell onto the baby's hair, and her new nurse stayed long after the lullaby was over. When she came back, the youthful dress was gone, and she was Madam Moor again, as her husband called her when she took on her dignified manner. Everyone smiled at the transformation, but only he commented on it.

"I get the applause, Sylvia, because I keep up my character until the end, while you give up before the curtain drops. You're not as good an actress as I believed you were."

Sylvia's smile was more sorrowful than her tears as she replied briefly—

"No, I realize I can't be a child again."

One of Sylvia's first actions when she got up was really important.[195] She shook out her long hair, made sure to part her thick curls over her cheeks and forehead, gathered the rest into its usual bun, and said to herself, as she looked at her face partly covered in the shiny cloud—

"It seems so emotional, and I hate the weakness that pushes me toward it, but it has to be done, because my face is such a betrayer. Poor Geoffrey! He said I wasn’t an actress; I’m picking it up quickly."

Why did everything seem sharper, every object take on an unusual interest, and that quiet hour feel so exciting that her own room and face looked strange to her? She wouldn't ask herself as she paused at the door trying to see if her guests were moving. The only sound was the steady footsteps on the path in front of the door, and with a feeling of relief, she slowly went down. Moor was taking his morning walk without a hat in the sun. Usually, Sylvia would run to join him, but this time she stood lost in thought on the steps until he noticed her and came over. As he offered her the flower he always had ready, he said with a smile—

"Did the play last night captivate you so much that you return to the curls because you can’t manage the braids?"[196]

"A sillier whim than that, even. I'm afraid of those two people; and since I’m so quick to show my feelings in my face, I plan to hide behind this veil if I get shy or anxious. Did you think I could be so clever?"

"Your talent amazes me. But, my dear child, you don’t need to be afraid of Faith and Adam. They already love you for my sake, and soon they will love you for who you are. They are both much older, so they can easily overlook any small flaws because of your youth. Sylvia, I want to share something with you about Adam. I’ve never mentioned it before because, even though no promise of secrecy was asked or given, I knew he saw it as a trust. Now that it’s all over, I know I can tell my wife, and she will help me support him."

"Go ahead, Geoffrey, I’m all ears."

"Well, dear, remember when we went camping ages ago, on the night you and Adam lost the boat? While I was drying your boots and secretly admiring them despite the mud, I made a discovery. Adam loved someone, was in some sort of tricky situation, and was going to get married in June. He was slow to open up about it, but I got the hint. Last night, when I was in his room, I asked him how he was doing. Sylvia, you would have felt a pang in your heart if you’d seen his face as he said, in his usual brief way—'Geoffrey, the woman I loved is married, don’t ask me anything else.' I never will; but I can tell from the change I see in him that the love was very special, and the hurt very deep."

"Poor Adam! How can we assist him?"

"Let him do whatever he wants. I'll take him back to his favorite spots and keep him busy with my stuff until he forgets about his own problems. In the evenings, we’ll invite Prue, Mark, and Jessie over to surround him with good company and make the last hours of the day the happiest; then he won’t be lying awake thinking all night, like I suspect he’s been doing lately. Sylvia, I really want to see that woman; though I could easily hate her for betraying such a good man."

Sylvia's head was bent as if to take in the sweetness of the flower she held, and all her husband noticed was her bright hair blowing in the wind.

"I feel sorry for her loss and also hate her. Now, let's discuss something else, or my revealing face will give away that we've been talking about him when we see Adam."

They did that, and when Warwick drew back his curtain, the first thing he saw was his friend walking with his young wife under the red-leaved maples, in the sunlight. The expression Moor had mentioned came into his eyes, darkening them with despair. It lingered for a moment, then faded, as Honor said reproachfully to Love—"They are happy; shouldn't that make you content?"

"It will!" replied the master of both, as he pulled down the curtain and walked away.

In line with his thoughtful plan, Moor took Adam out for a long walk soon after breakfast, while Sylvia and Miss Dane sat down to sew. With the bigger worry out of the way, Sylvia quickly forgot the smaller one and started to feel comfortable enough to observe her new relative and wish for her approval.

Faith was in her thirties, tall and curvy, with a natural dignity in the way she carried herself. Her face was never classically beautiful, but it had a unique attractiveness due to its gentle and sincere expression. Seeing her made it clear that she was a truly womanly woman—kind, fair, and honest; she had a well-balanced mind, a self-sufficient spirit, and that rare ability to act as a touchstone for everyone around her, making them reveal their true selves without even realizing they were being tested. Her presence felt reassuring, her voice had a nurturing quality, and her eyes held a supportive gaze. Even the soft color of her dress, the rich brown of her hair, and the graceful movements of her hands had a magnetic effect. Sylvia sensed all of this quickly, her sensitive nature responding, and she found herself so drawn in that it soon became hard to hide anything bothering her, because Faith had a natural talent for comforting others, and Sylvia's heart was overflowing.

However gloomy her day might have been, she always brightened in the evening just like moths start to flutter when the candles are lit. On that particular evening, the friendly atmosphere around her and the excitement of Warwick’s presence influenced her so much that, even though the joy of her youth was long gone, she appeared as softly radiant as a late bloom that has absorbed the summer and expresses it again in the bloom and beauty of a single hour.

When tea was finished, because heroes and heroines need to eat to accomplish anything that’s worth writing down, the women gathered around the library table, with work in hand, since women tend to talk more easily when their hands are busy. Sylvia left Prue and Jessie to chat with Faith, and while she worked on something small with red silk and an ivory shuttle, she listened to the men who were wandering around the room until Prue's comment brought everyone together.

"Helen Chesterfield has left her husband in the most shameful way."

Mark and Moor approached while Adam leaned against the mantelpiece. The workers took a break, and after sharing her thoughts, Prue quickly satisfied their curiosity because everyone knew the people involved and was eager to hear the details.

"She married a Frenchman who was old enough to be her dad, but he was very wealthy. She thought she loved him, but when she grew tired of her fancy lifestyle and the excitement of Paris, she realized she didn’t, and she felt miserable. Many of her new friends had lovers, so why shouldn't she? Eventually, she started to entertain herself with this Louis Gustave Isadore Theodule de Roueville—what a name for a Christian man! Well, she started off just having fun but then it became serious, and when she could no longer cope with her domestic issues, she ended up running away, ruining herself for this life, and honestly, I’m not sure about the next one either."

"Poor thing! I always thought she was an idiot, but honestly, I feel bad for her," said Mark.

"Remember, she was really young, far away from her mom, with no real friend to look out for her or help her, and love is so sweet. It's no surprise she left."

"Sylvia, how can you defend her like that? She should have fulfilled her responsibilities whether she cared for the old gentleman or not and dealt with her problems in a more appropriate way. You young women focus so much on love and so little on moral obligations, decorum, and what society thinks; you're not in a position to judge this situation. I'm sure Mr. Warwick would agree with me."

"Not at all."

"Are you saying that Helen should have left her husband?"

"Surely, if she couldn't love him."

"Are you saying that she was justified in leaving with that Gustave Isadore Theodule guy?"[200]

"Absolutely not. It's even more foolish to try to fix one wrong by creating another."

"Then what on earth was she supposed to do?"

"She should have honestly figured out who she truly loved, told her husband the mistake they both made, and asked for her freedom. If her lover was worthy, she should have married him openly and faced the judgment of the world. If he wasn't worthy, she should have stood alone, an honest woman in God's eyes, no matter what the blind world thought."

Prue was completely outraged, because to her, marriage was more of a rule than a belief; a rule that stated a couple once joined together should stick to their agreement, whether it was good or bad, and maintain appearances in public no matter how terrible their home life was for them and their children.

"What a terrible situation society would be in if your ideas took hold! People would always be realizing they were with the wrong match, running around like they were playing that game where everyone switches places. I'd rather die right now than live to see things turn out that way," said the respectable single woman.

"Me too, and I suggest prevention instead of a risky cure."

"I would really love to hear your thoughts, Mr. Warwick, because you truly amaze me."

Much to Sylvia's surprise, Adam seemed to enjoy the topic and eagerly offered his views to Prue.

"I would start at the beginning and teach young people that marriage isn't the only goal in life, but I would prepare them for it, as if it were a sacred and profound commitment not to be taken lightly. Show them how to[201] be deserving of it and how to patiently await it. Provide them with a life philosophy that is both uplifting and supportive; a philosophy that keeps them optimistic if they're single, confident that, now or in the future, they'll find their other half and be accepted by them; and joyful if married, as their own integrity will help them recognize the true partner when they arrive, keeping them faithful until the end."

"That’s all really great and lovely, but what are the poor souls supposed to do who haven’t been educated like this?” asked Prue.

"Unhappy marriages are the tragedies of our time, and they will continue to be until we realize that there are deeper truths to follow than just societal norms, and that there are obstacles beyond differences in wealth, status, and age. Just because two people love each other, it isn’t always safe or wise for them to marry, nor does living apart have to ruin their peace. Often, what feels like the best love can actually serve us better when it's challenged rather than fulfilled, which can end up disappointing both lives instead of enhancing one."

He stopped there, but Prue wanted a clearer answer and turned to Faith, confident that the woman would have her own opinion on the matter.

"Who among us is correct, Miss Dane, regarding Helen's situation?"

"I can’t really judge the young lady since I know so little about her character or the influences around her, and I believe that a certain divine example is the best guide for us in such situations. I agree with Mr. Warwick, but not completely, because his quick way of dealing with things wouldn’t be fair or right in every case. If both realize they don’t love each other, the sooner they part, the better; if just one of them makes that discovery, it’s even sadder and harder to decide what to do. But since I’m speaking only from what I’ve observed, my opinions don’t carry much weight."[202]

"You're very valuable, Miss Dane; because for women like you, observation often fills in for experience, and despite your modesty, I'm eager to hear your thoughts."

Warwick spoke, and spoke urgently, because the impact of all this on Sylvia was too captivating a situation to let go of just yet. As he turned to her, Faith gave him a knowing look and responded as if she were addressing something important and serious—

"You can have them. Let's say Helen was a woman with a stronger personality, a deeper character; the husband a younger, nobler man; and the lover genuinely great, even advising against the choice this couple has made. In such a situation, the wife, having promised to protect someone else's happiness, should truly try to do so, remembering that when we make others happy, we often find our own happiness too, and that after making such a significant mistake, the other person shouldn't bear all the consequences. If the husband has a strong attachment and is a man deserving of love and respect, who has entrusted himself to her, believing he is loved by the woman he loves, she should leave no stone unturned and no sacrifice unmade until she has proven beyond any doubt that it's impossible to be a true wife. Only then does she have the right to end the bond that has become a burden because where there's no love, inevitable suffering and sorrow will come, affecting not just the guilty parents but also the innocent children they may have."

"And what about the lover?" Adam asked, still focused on his goal. Even though he was staring intently at Faith, he realized that Sylvia was weaving in and out with a frantic energy that made her silence meaningful to him.[203]

"I would have the lover endure and wait; confident that, no matter what happens to him, he will be richer and better for having experienced the joy and pain of love."

"Thank you." And to Mark's surprise, Warwick bowed seriously, while Miss Dane went back to her work with a thoughtful expression.

"Well, for someone who's definitely chosen celibacy, you seem to have a surprising interest in marriage," said Mark. "Or is it just a cheap thrill to ponder the struggles of others and pat yourself on the back for avoiding them?"

"Neither; I not only feel sorry for them and want to help, but I also have a strong desire to share my life with them. My wish and goal for the past year has been to get married."

Outspoken as Warwick always was about everything, there was something in this confession that moved everyone in the room. As he spoke, a quick light and warmth spread across his face, and the intensity of his feelings made his voice resonate in a way that made one heart race and brought sudden tears to one pair of eyes. Moor couldn't see his friend's face, but he could see Mark's, guessed the intrusive question waiting on his lips, and stopped him with a warning gesture.

A pause followed, during which everyone reflected on the last speech, and for several in the group, that brief moment became quite memorable. Remembering the lost love Warwick had confided in him, Moor felt a friendly regret—"Poor Adam, he can't seem to forget." Sensing the truth in the pure joy the moment brought her, Sylvia thought to herself, "Oh, Geoffrey, forgive me, because I love him!" and[204] Warwick softly said to his impulsive heart, "Calm down, we've gone far enough."

Prue spoke first, clearly upset that her biases and opinions were challenged, and eager to prove she was right.

"Mark and Geoffrey seem like they agree with Mr. Warwick's—sorry to say, reckless ideas; but I think if they had to apply them personally, it would change their perspective. Now, Mark, just consider this; what if one of Jessie's suitors found a connection with her, and she felt the same about him, what would you do?"

"Shoot him, me, or all three of us, and turn it into a tidy little tragedy."

"There’s no point in expecting a serious answer from you, and I don’t know why I bother. Geoffrey, let me present this scenario to you: if Sylvia discovers one day that she has a deep affection for Julian Haize, who got sick when she got married, would you really think it’s fair and reasonable to say, ‘Go ahead, my dear, I’m really sorry, but there’s nothing we can do’?"

The way Prue presented the situation made it impossible for anyone listening not to laugh. But Sylvia held her breath while waiting for her husband’s response. He was standing behind her chair, smiling confidently, too assured to entertain even a fleeting thought.

"Maybe I should be generous enough to do that, but since I'm not a Jaques with a handy glacier to save me from this situation, I'm afraid I would be difficult to deal with. I only love a few people, and those few are my entire world; so please don't push me too hard, Sylvia."

"I'll give it my all, Geoffrey."

She dropped her shuttle as she spoke, and as she bent down to[205] pick it up, her long curls fell over her cheeks. When she got back to work, the only part of her face visible was a peek of her forehead, dark lashes, and a faint smile. Moor shifted the conversation to other subjects and soon got into a deep discussion about art with Mark and Miss Dane, while Prue and Jessie chatted comfortably about fashion. But Sylvia continued to work quietly, and Warwick stood there watching her busy hands as if he saw something more than just the pretty contrast of her white fingers against the red silk.

When the other guests had left, and Faith and he had gone to their rooms, Warwick, determined not to spend another sleepless night filled with pointless yearnings, went back down to grab a book. The library was still lit, and as he stood there alone, he saw Sylvia, wearing an expression that shocked him. Both of her hands were pushed back and holding her hair away, as if she rejected any self-deception. Her eyes seemed fixed with a hopeless look at some invisible trouble that troubled her mind. All the light and color that made her beautiful were gone, leaving her face looking tired and aged, and the expressions on her face and body conveyed someone who had suddenly encountered a harsh truth, a heavy obligation that needed to be accepted and faced.

This realization lasted only a moment; Moor’s footsteps echoed down the hall, the hair fell, the pain faded, and all that was left was a pale and tired face. But Warwick had witnessed it, and as he slipped away unnoticed, he pressed his hands together, saying sadly to himself, “I was wrong. God help us all.”

If Sylvia needed another trial to make that tough week[206] even harder, it quickly came to her in realizing that Warwick was watching her. She knew exactly why, and she tried in vain to hide from him what she had managed to keep hidden from everyone else. But he had the key to her changing moods; he alone understood that now painful worries, not mere whims, dictated many of her seemingly random actions. To others, she seemed busy, cheerful, and deeply interested in everything around her; to him, her busyness was a way to fend off unwanted thoughts; her cheerfulness was a daily effort to forget; her interest was driven by anxiety about how her companions looked and spoke, because she had to protect her own behaviors.

Sylvia felt a sense of fear in the presence of his piercing gaze and bold determination, as his watchful eye was relentless yet discreet. Despite her efforts, she couldn't read his feelings while she felt her own being exposed. Adam couldn’t pretend; focused on uncovering the truth for everyone's sake, he faced the risks of the situation without tricks or rash behaviors, avoiding private meetings with Sylvia as much as politeness to his host would allow. In walks, drives, and general conversations, he played his role, surprising and delighting those who knew him best with the warm change that seemed to soften his tough exterior. However, the moment the family dispersed and Moor’s devotion to his cousin left Sylvia alone, Warwick slipped away into the woods or out to sea, lingering there until a meal, some planned enjoyment, or the evening lamp brought everyone back together. Sylvia understood this and loved him for it, even while wishing things were different. But Moor criticized him for abandoning them, feeling it more keenly since the softer qualities had made him dearer to his friend. Disliking all pretenses, Warwick found it difficult to hide what wasn’t his to reveal, and with no blame to himself, he responded to Moor's teasing complaint with a heartfelt sincerity that ended any further arguments.

"Geoffrey, I’m feeling really down, and even you can’t fix it. Just give it time, and let me come and go like before, enjoying the social moments when I can, and retreating to solitude when I need to."

Much as Sylvia had wanted to see these friends, she found herself counting the hours of their visit because one person's presence was a constant source of unease. Her energy would often dip, conversations would falter, and an overwhelming tiredness would wash over her unexpectedly. More than once during that week, she wished she could rest her head on Faith's comforting shoulder and ask for support. Though her husband's love was deep, it didn’t have the calming effect of a woman’s sympathy. Even though it cradled her as gently as if she were a child, Faith's compassion would have felt like maternal arms to hold and nurture her. But even as they quickly grew closer, with Faith being open and genuine toward Sylvia, and Sylvia feeling a strong affection for Faith, she never seemed to reach that deeper connection she longed for. Just when she thought she had found the most intimate bond that we all seek in a friend, she felt as though Faith pulled away, and a delicate yet firm distance created a chilly barrier between them. This seemed so unlike Faith’s character that Sylvia worried and reflected on it until she came to believe that this truly wonderful and admirable woman did not want to receive her trust. Sometimes, a harsh fear would creep in that Warwick wasn’t the only one who saw her hidden struggles.

All things have an end, and the final day arrived just in time for one resident under that welcoming roof. Faith rejected all pleas to remain and cast a somewhat worried glance at Warwick as Moor shifted his focus from her to him with the same insistence.

"Adam, are you going to stay? Promise me for another week?"

"I don't make promises, Geoffrey."

Believing that his request was granted since no one denied it, Moor focused entirely on Faith, who was going to leave them in an hour.

"Sylvia, while I help our cousin pick out and pack the books and prints she wants to take, could you run down to the garden and fill your prettiest basket with our best grapes? You'll enjoy that more than dealing with folds and string, and you know it's not right to have our servants do these nice things for our closest friends."

Glad to be free, Sylvia ran through the long grape path to its sunniest spot, and standing outside the arch, she started to put the purple bunches into her basket. She was only there alone for a moment; Warwick's shadow, stretched by the setting sun, soon fell dark along the path. He didn’t notice her and didn’t seem to be following her; he walked slowly, hat in hand, so slowly that he was only halfway down[209] the leafy lane when Faith’s voice stopped him. She was in a hurry, as her quick steps and almost breathless words revealed; and without wasting a moment, she shouted before they met—

"Adam, are you coming with me? I can't leave you here."

"Do you doubt me, Faith?"

"No, but women in love are so weak."

"So strong, you mean; men are the weakest when they love."

"Adam, will you come?"

"I'll follow you; I need to talk to Geoffrey first."

"Do you have to tell him so soon?"

"I have to."

Faith's hand was on Warwick's arm; as he finished speaking, she rested her head on it for a moment, then without saying anything else, turned and rushed back as quickly as she had arrived, while Warwick stood where she had left him, motionless as if lost in deep thought.

All of it happened in an instant, a moment too brief and filled with overwhelming surprise for Sylvia to reflect on or reveal her presence. Half hidden and completely unnoticed, she had witnessed Faith's unusual agitation and had heard Warwick's softly spoken responses to her eager pleas. With a sharp pang, she realized there was a tender connection between the two that she had never imagined. As sudden as the realization was, she quickly accepted and believed it; knowing her own vulnerabilities, Sylvia felt a sense of relief in the hope that a new happiness for Warwick had ended all temptation and perhaps, in time, would alleviate her own pain. True to her impulsive nature, she clung to this perceived truth and, making this fantasy into a reality, fell into a deep sense of self-sacrifice, reflecting in the brief moment that followed Faith's departure—

"This is the change we see in him; it made him watch me, hoping I had forgotten, as I once said and believed. I should be happy, I will be happy, and let him see that even while I suffer I can take joy in what benefits us both."

Full of her generous intentions but unsure how to act on them, Sylvia stepped out from where she had been standing and slowly walked toward Warwick, seeming focused on placing her fruit-laden basket down as she approached. As soon as he heard her light footsteps on the gravel, he turned, sensing that she must have overheard something and eager to find out what that brief conversation meant to her. She gave him only a quick glance as she came closer, but it revealed flushed cheeks, excited eyes, and a slightly shaking voice as she said—

"These are for Faith; can you hold the basket while I cover it with leaves?"

He took it, and as the first green layer was skillfully placed, he asked softly—

"Sylvia, did you hear us?"

To his utter disbelief, she looked up clearly, and every bit of her heart was in her voice as she responded with a passion he couldn't question—

"Yes; and I was happy to hear that a more remarkable woman is taking the place I can't. Oh, trust me, Adam; knowing how content you are will ease the deep regret you’ve felt like nothing else could."

Down fell the basket at their feet, and taking her face between his hands, Warwick leaned in and searched with a glance[211] that seemed to reach into her heart. For a moment she struggled to pull away, but the grip that held her was unyielding. She tried to maintain a brave front and resist that invasive gaze, but the traitorous color rushed quickly and deeply over her cheeks and forehead, betraying her. She attempted to look away, but his dark eyes, wide with determination, locked onto hers, and the familiar features of his face appeared terrifyingly grand to her panicked view. A sense of complete helplessness washed over her; her courage vanished, pride turned to fear, and defiance shifted to despair. As the blush faded, her fleeting glance was captured, and her upturned face became pale and blank, ready to receive the answer that Warwick's probing gaze slowly revealed, much like invisible words appearing on a page when exposed to fire. They didn’t speak, but soon the force of his unyielding will broke through all barriers and drew out the truth, releasing the captive feelings held back for so long, and extracted from her reluctant features a full confession of that power which has been blessed with eternal youth.

The moment he was completely sure of that, Warwick let her go, grabbed his hat, and hurried down the path, disappearing into the woods. Exhausted from an hour of excitement and confused by emotions she could no longer control, Sylvia stayed in the grape walk until her husband called for her. Then, quickly filling her basket again, she shook her hair around her face and went to say goodbye to Faith. Moor was set to go with her to the city, and they left early so that Faith could take a moment to say goodbye to Mark and Prudence.

"Where is Adam? Has he left, or has he been convinced to stay?"[212]

Moor spoke to Sylvia, but while she was busy fastening the basket lid, she seemed not to hear, so Faith answered for her.

"He'll take a later boat, so we don't need to wait for him."

When Faith hugged Sylvia, all the stiffness had disappeared from her behavior, and her voice was as gentle as a mother's as she softly whispered in her ear—

"Dear child, if you ever need help that Geoffrey can’t provide, remember cousin Faith."

For two hours, Sylvia sat alone, not wasting time. In the first real solitude she had experienced in seven days, she took a deep look inside herself, shedding all pretenses, acknowledging the truth, and deciding to make amends for the past if she could, just as Faith had advised in her situation. Like many of us, Sylvia often recognized her mistakes too late to avoid them, and by failing to do the right thing at the right moment, she kept herself perpetually in debt to a creditor that inevitably had to be paid. She had been coming to this decision during that exhausting week, and these quiet hours left her both determined and accepting.

As she sat there while the early twilight started to settle in, her gaze frequently shifted to Warwick's traveling bag, which Faith had noticed ready in his room and brought down to the library as a reminder of her wish. Looking at it, Sylvia's heart ached for it in that fond, silly way women often feel, bestowing the possessions of those they love with a life of their own, along with a piece of their owner's nature or their connection to them. It was just like Warwick—simple and strong, without a key, and showing every sign of its long use that had tested its worth and proven it durable. A pair of gloves rested beside it on the chair, and even though she yearned to touch something of his, she held back the urge until, pausing near them during one of her trips to the window, she noticed a tear in the top glove—that appeal was too strong to resist. "Poor Adam! No one has cared for him in so long, and Faith doesn't know how yet; surely I can do this small favor for him without him ever knowing just how tenderly I do it?"

Standing ready to drop her work at a sound, Sylvia seized a brief satisfaction that comforted her more than an hour of idle lamenting. As she kissed the glove with a long, sad kiss and placed it down with eyes that vaguely saw where it belonged, perhaps there was as much genuine love and sorrow in that little act as ever glorified some greater deed. Then she went to lie in the "Refuge," as she called an old chair, resting her head on its comforting arm. Not weeping, but quietly watching the flicker of the fire, which filled the room with a warm glow, making the twilight even more pleasant, until a sudden blaze leaped up, signaling that her watch was over and Warwick had arrived. She hadn’t heard him come in, but there he was right in front of her, his face glowing from the cold air, his eyes clear and kind, and in his presence that indescribable charm that earned him the trust of anyone who looked at him. Without knowing why, Sylvia felt reassured that everything was okay and looked up with more warmth in her heart than she dared to express in words.

"Finally! Where have you been for so long, Adam?"

"Round the Island I think, because I got lost and had no guide except my instincts to lead me back home. I like to say that word, because even though it's not home, it feels that way to me now. Can I sit here for a bit before I leave and warm myself by your fire, Sylvia?"

Confident in his answer, he sat down on the stool at[214]her feet, reached his hands toward the comforting fire, and continued speaking with a determination that added strength and depth to his voice.

"I had a question I needed to figure out, so I went to find my best advisors in the woods. Often when I'm troubled by confusion or doubts that I can't find a smart or comforting answer to, I convince myself to believe that an answer will come; and then it does. I bend down to pick a beautiful flower, collect a cone, or watch some little creature that seems happier than I am, and there it is—my answer, like a lucky penny, right at my fingertips."

"Faith is gone, but Geoffrey hopes to have you for another week," said Sylvia, avoiding the uncomfortable subject.

"Will he get his wish?"

"Faith wants you to follow her."

"And you think I should?"

"I believe you will."

"When does the next boat leave?"

"In an hour."

"I'll wait for it here. Did I wake you up when I came in?"

"I wasn't asleep; just feeling lazy, warm, and relaxed."

"And so incredibly tired;—dear friend, how could it be any different, living the way you do?"

There was so much compassion in his voice, so much affection in his eyes, and such a warm kindness in the way he touched her hand that Sylvia thought to herself, "Oh, if only Geoffrey would come!" and hoping for that help to save her from herself, she quickly replied—

"You’re wrong, Adam—my life is easier than I deserve—my husband makes me very—"

"Awful—the truth to me, Sylvia."

Warwick stood up as he talked, closed the door, and returned[215] with an expression that made her jump with a pleading gesture—

"No, no, I won't listen to you! Adam, you can't talk!"

He stopped in front of her, keeping a small distance between them that he didn't close for the rest of the conversation, and with that expression, both unyielding and sympathetic, he replied calmly—

"I have to speak and you will listen to me. But understand me, Sylvia, I don't want any French-style drama or sin like what we heard about, and what I'm saying now, I would say even if Geoffrey were standing right here. I’ve come to this conclusion after a lot of thought and the most sincere prayers I've ever said; and even though I have a lot at stake, I’m speaking more for your benefit than my own. So please don’t beg or hesitate, just listen and let me explain the mistake you’re making for yourself, your husband, and your friend."

"Does Faith know everything that happened before? Does she want you to do this so that her happiness is guaranteed?" asked Sylvia.

"Faith is no more to me, nor I to Faith, than the friendliest regard can make us. She suspected that I loved you long ago; she now believes that you love me; she pities her cousin tenderly, but will not get involved in the mess we’ve created with our three lives. Forget that nonsense, and let me talk to you like I should. When we parted, I thought you loved Geoffrey; so did you. When I got here, I was sure of it for a day; but on that second night, I saw your face as you stood here alone, and then I understood what I've since reassured myself of. God knows, I think my gain is dearly bought at his expense. I see your double struggle; I know the challenges ahead for all of us; yet, as an honest man, I have to be honest, because you shouldn't deceive yourself or Geoffrey for another day."[216]

"What right do you have to come between us and decide my duty, Adam?" Sylvia said passionately, stirred to resistance by his attitude and the chaos of emotions battling inside her.

"The right of a sane person to save the woman he loves from ruining her own peace forever and damaging the trust of their closest friend. I know this isn’t how the world usually handles these things, but I don’t care; because I believe one person has the right to speak to another in moments like these as if they were the only two in existence. I won’t command you, I’ll appeal to you, and if you’re the honest person I think you are, your own words will confirm what I’m saying. Sylvia, do you love your husband?"

"Yes, Adam, I love you."

"Do you love me more?"

"I wish I did! I wish I did!"

"Are you happy with him?"

"I was here until you arrived; I will still be here when you leave."

"Never! It's impossible to return to the blissful peace you once had. Now there's only one thing you need to do; procrastination is weak, and dishonesty is wrong; only complete honesty can help us. Tell Geoffrey everything; then, whether you live your life alone or eventually come to me, you won't have any deceit to regret, and facing the harsh truth takes away some of its fear. Will you do this, Sylvia?"

"No, Adam. Remember what he said that night: 'I love but a few, and those few are my whole world,'—I am the most important person in that world; should I destroy it for my own selfish enjoyment? He waited for me for a long time and is still waiting; can I let down the patient heart that would find it easier[217] to give up life than to hold onto the little I am? No, I shouldn't, and I can't do it yet."

"If you can’t be honest with your friend, you don’t deserve him, and that name is a lie. You want me to remember what he said that night—I want you to think about the look he gave you when he pleaded for you not to push him too hard. Consider this—what’s the kinder choice, to confess everything now or to wait until later when avoiding the truth has made it harder for you to share and more painful for him to hear? I’m telling you, Sylvia, it would be more merciful to end it right away than to slowly chip away at his trust, peace, and love by trying to fulfill what should be your greatest joy, which will soon turn into a weight greater than you can handle."

"You don’t see things the way I do; you can’t understand what I mean to him, nor can I explain what he means to me. It’s not like I could dislike or look down on him for anything he’s done wrong; it’s not just that he’s a lover. If that were the case, I could do a lot of things that are now worse than impossible, because I’ve married him, and it’s too late."

"Oh, Sylvia! Why couldn’t you have waited?"

"Why? Because I am who I am, easily influenced by my circumstances, completely driven by whatever hope, belief, or fear takes over me at the time. If I had a strong character like yours, I would be just as strong. I know I’m weak, but I’m not intentionally bad; when I ask you to be quiet, it’s because I want to spare him from the pain of doubt and try to learn how to love him the way I should. I need time, but I can endure a lot and try harder than you think. If I forgot you once, can’t I do it again? And should I not? I mean everything to him, while you, so strong and self-sufficient, can manage without my love as you have until now and will soon move past your sadness for what could have made us happy if I had been more patient.[218]"

"Yes, I’ll outlive this; otherwise, I wouldn’t have much faith in myself. But I won’t forget; and if you want to stay exactly as you are to me, you need to act in a way that nothing will tarnish this memory if it’s to be no more. I doubt your ability to forget an affection that has survived so many changes and withstood challenges that Geoffrey must have unknowingly posed. But I have no right to judge your beliefs, dictate your actions, or force you to accept my morals if you’re not ready for them. You need to make your own decision, but don’t deceive yourself again, and through whatever happens, hold on to what’s more valuable to keep than a husband, happiness, or friendship."

His words felt cold to Sylvia because, with the unpredictable nature of a woman's heart, she thought he was giving up on her too easily. Yet, she respected him more for sacrificing both himself and her to the principle that guided his life and made him who he was. His apparent acceptance calmed her, as now he was waiting for her decision, while before he was solely focused on achieving the goal he believed would lead to salvation. She gathered her strength, organized her thoughts, and attempted to demonstrate what she believed to be her duty.

"Let me share what I'm going through, Adam, and please be patient if I'm not as wise and brave as you are, but I'm much too young and inexperienced to handle these troubles well. Right now, I'm relying not on my own judgment but on Faith's, and even though you don't love her as I hoped, you sense that she's someone to trust. She said that in that hypothetical situation, which felt so real to us, a wife should leave no stone unturned and make no self-denial unchallenged until she has truly proven that she can't fulfill her promises. Only then does she have the right to break the bond that ties her. I have to do this before I consider your love or my own, because on the morning of my wedding, I made a personal vow that Geoffrey's happiness would be my top priority. I will uphold that vow as seriously as I will those made before others, until I find that it’s completely beyond my capability, and then I will break them all."

"You tried that once and it didn't work."

"No, I’ve never tried it like I’m about to now. At first, I didn’t know the truth, then I was afraid to believe it, and I struggled blindly to forget. Now I see clearly, I admit it, I’m determined to conquer this, and I won’t give up until I’ve done my best. You say I deserve your respect. Could you really respect me if I didn’t respect myself anymore? I wouldn’t, if I forgot everything Geoffrey has endured and done for me, and couldn’t bear to do this for him. I have to make the effort, and I need to do it quietly; because he’s very proud despite his gentleness, and he would reject any apparent sacrifice, even though he would make one that’s much harder out of love for me. If I’m going to stay with him, it spares him the greatest pain he could face; if I leave, it gives him a few more months of happiness, and I can prepare him so that the separation will be less painful. I can’t say how others would act; I just know that this feels right to me, and I must fight my battle alone, even if it kills me."

She was so sincere, yet so modest; so lacking in strength except for her wish to do well; so young to be burdened with such heavy issues, and yet so steadfast in the grateful yet guilty affection she felt for her husband, that although deeply disappointed and not convinced at all, Warwick[220] could only give in to this warm-hearted girl and love her even more, both for who she was and for who she wanted to become.

"Sylvia, what do you want me to do?"

"You need to leave, and for a while, Adam; because when you're around me, your wishes influence my decisions, and I want to give you whatever you want. Go far away, and through Faith, you will find out if I'm successful or not. It's tough to say this, but you know it's more genuine hospitality for me to send you away than to keep you here and give you something that tempts you for your daily bread."

How strangely Ottila returned to him, and all the moments they had shared together!—a risky contrast at that moment. Yet, despite his pride in the affectionate little girl who pushed him away so she could be deserving of him, one unstoppable sadness filled his heart and escaped his lips—

"Ah, Sylvia! I thought saying goodbye on the mountain was the hardest thing I could ever experience, but this is even tougher; because now, I only have to say come to me, and you would come."

But that bitter moment had its touch of sweetness, which gave him strength when everything else had let him down. Sylvia responded with complete confidence in that integrity which even her own desires couldn't sway—

"Yes, Adam, but you won't say it, because deep down, you know I can't come to you."

He knew it and showed his submission by quickly folding his arms that were half open for her, standing silent with words trembling on his lips. It was the bravest act of a life filled with real bravery, for the sacrifice was made with more than human strength. The man's heart cried out for what was right, patience was worn out, hope was lost, and all natural instincts rebelled against the command keeping them in check. But no act of virtue ever goes unrecognized; it returns the strength to its giver and is always rewarded with the approval, imitation, or joy of some kindred soul. It was the same then, as Sylvia approached him; for although she did not touch him or smile at him, he felt her presence, and the separation assured him that it connected them more closely than the happiest union. Her face lit up with a look that was half passionate, half reverent, and her voice did not waver now.

"You show me who I should be. All my life, I've wanted strength of heart and stability of soul; can I hope to gain just a bit of the integrity I admire in you? If courage, self-denial, and self-reliance make you who you are, is there a better guide for me? You say you will outlast this passion; why shouldn't I follow your brave example and find the comfort you will? Oh, Adam, let me try."

"You will."

"Then go; go now, while I can say it properly."

"The good Lord bless and support you, Sylvia."

She gave him both her hands, and although he just pressed them quietly, that grip almost shattered the victory she had achieved, because the strong hold broke the slender guard-ring Moor had given her a week ago. She heard it fall with a soft jingle on the hearth, saw the dark oval, with its extra significant meaning, roll into the ashes, and felt Warwick's hold tighten as if he echoed the emphatic word spoken when the useless gift was first given. Superstition coursed through Sylvia's veins and was as unshakeable as the imagination that fed it. This omen startled her. It felt like a warning that her efforts would be pointless, that giving in was smart, and that the husband's charm had lost its power when the stronger influence took hold of her. The desire to resist began to falter as her old passionate longing flared up more eloquently than ever; she felt the wave of a soon-to-come impulse, realizing that it would pull her into Warwick's arms, where she would forget her duty and lose his respect. With the last effort of a weary spirit, she pulled her hands away, dashed up to the room that had never needed a lock or key until now, and stifling the sound of those retreating steps among the cushions of the little couch where she had shed childhood tears and dreamed of girlhood hopes, she grappled with the great sadness of her too early womanhood, uttering with a broken voice that request most often quoted from the one prayer that expresses all our needs—

"Don't lead me into temptation, but rescue me from evil."

March winds were howling around the house, the clock[223] was striking two, the library lamp was still on, and Moor was sitting there, writing with a worried look on his face. Every so often, he stopped to glance back through the pages of the book he was using; sometimes he sat with his pen in mid-air, lost in thought; and once or twice he put it down to cover his eyes, which were more tired than his mind that pushed him to work at this late hour.

Returning to his work after one of these breaks, he was a bit surprised to see Sylvia standing in the doorway. He quickly got up to check if she was okay, but stopped halfway across the room when he noticed, with a jolt of fear and surprise, that she was asleep. Her eyes were open, staring blankly, her face calm, her breathing steady, and she seemed completely unaware of her surroundings. Worried about waking her up too abruptly, Moor stood still, intrigued, because this was his first encounter with sleepwalking, and it was a strange, almost unsettling sight to see the body following the soul that guided it.

For several minutes, she stayed where she first appeared. Then, as if the dream required her to move, she bent down and picked up something from a chair next to the door,[224] held it for a moment, kissed it gently, and put it back down. She slowly and carefully walked across the room, avoiding all obstacles with the instinct that often guides sleepwalkers past dangers that would terrify them when awake, and sat down in the large chair he had vacated, resting her cheek on its arm and relaxing peacefully for several minutes. Soon, the dream disrupted her, and as she raised her head, she leaned forward, as if speaking to or comforting someone sitting at her feet. Her husband couldn't help but smile; often, when they were alone, he would sit there reading or talking to her while she played with his hair, comparing its rich brown curls to the young Milton's in the painting above them. The smile hardly appeared before it vanished, as Sylvia suddenly jumped up with both hands out, crying in a voice that shattered the silence with its desperate intensity—

"No, no, you can’t talk! I won’t listen to you!"

Her own cry woke her up. As her awareness and memories came back, her face went pale with terror, and her confused eyes showed her not Warwick, but her husband. This expression, filled with fear yet so aware, shocked Moor more than the ghost or the scream had, as he suddenly felt that some hidden trouble had been weighing on Sylvia and was now spilling over against her will. Eager to uncover the truth and determined to do so, he hid his intentions for a while, maintaining his usual demeanor to reassure and calm her.

"Dear child, don't look so confused and frantic. You're perfectly safe; you've just been wandering in your sleep. Why, Mrs. Macbeth, have you killed someone that you’re screaming like this, scaring me just as much as I seem to have scared you?"[225]

"I've killed sleep. What did I do? What did I say?" she asked, trembling and shrinking as she sank into her chair.

Hoping to calm her down, he sat on the footstool and explained what had happened. At first, she listened with mixed feelings, as the vividness of the dream still lingered in her mind; she half expected Warwick to rise like Banquo and take back the seat that now seemed to belong to just him. A look of intense relief replaced her fear once she had heard everything, and she steadied herself, knowing her secret was still safe. Although it was a gloomy burden to carry, she had not yet decided to end her struggle.

"What made you leave, Sylvia?"

"I remember hearing the clock strike one and thinking I would come down to see what you were doing so late, but I must have dozed off and carried out my plan in my sleep. As you can see, I put on my robe and slippers like I always do when I take late-night walks. The fire feels so nice, and you look so cozy here; it's no surprise you like to stay and enjoy it."

She leaned forward, warming her hands in an unconscious imitation of Adam, on the night she had been thinking about before falling asleep. Moor watched her with growing unease; he had never seen her in a mood like this. She dodged his question, looked away, partly hid her face, and with a gesture that had recently become common for her, seemed to try to shield her heart. She had often confused him, sometimes saddened him, but never before had she shown that she was afraid of him. This hurt both his love and pride, and solidified his determination to get an explanation for the changes that had taken place in her over those winter months, as they had been many and mysterious. As if afraid of silence, Sylvia soon spoke again.[226]

"Why are you up so late? This isn't the first time I've noticed your lamp on when I woke up. What are you studying so intensely?"

"My spouse."

Leaning on the arm of her chair, he looked up longingly, tenderly, as if he were inviting trust and seeking affection. His words and expression hit Sylvia right in the heart, and if it weren't for the thought, "I haven't tried hard enough," she would have confessed what was on her lips. Once said, it would be too late for any secret attempts or success, and this man's happiest dreams would vanish in an instant. Knowing that his sensitivity was almost as delicate as a woman's, she realized that finding out about her love for Adam, innocent as it had been and selfless as she tried to be, would forever taint the beauty of Moor's married life. No moment would feel sacred, no action, look, or word from her would be entirely his, and none of the sweet pleasures of home would remain untouched by the shadow of his friend. She couldn't speak yet, and as she turned her gaze to the fire, she asked—

"Why should you study me? Don't you have a better book?"

"None that I love to read as much or feel the need to understand like you; because, even though you are the closest and dearest to me, I feel like I know you less than any friend I have. I don't want to hurt you, dear, or be demanding; but since we got married, you've become shyer than ever, and the union that should have brought us closer seems to have pushed us apart. You never talk about yourself anymore, or ask me to share what’s going on in that busy mind of yours;[227] and lately, you've sometimes avoided me, as if being alone is more enjoyable than being with me. Is it, Sylvia?"

"Sometimes, I've always enjoyed being alone, you know."

She answered as honestly as she could, sensing that his love required complete trust except for that one harsh truth that would ruin everything irreparably.

"I knew I had a really strong heart, but I hoped it wasn't a selfish one," he said sadly. "Now I see that it is, and I deeply regret that my hopeful spirit and my eager love have brought disappointment to both of us. I should have waited longer, should have been less sure of my ability to win you over, and never let you waste your life trying to be happy when I wasn't enough for you. I shouldn't have agreed to your wish to spend the winter here so much alone with me. I should have realized that such a quiet home and a studious companion wouldn’t have much appeal for a young girl like you. Forgive me, I will do better, and we'll change this one-sided life of ours; while I've felt completely content, you have been miserable."

It was impossible to deny it, and with a tearless sob, she wrapped her arm around his neck, resting her head on his shoulder, silently admitting the truth of what he said. The worry deepened on his face, but he spoke more cheerfully, convinced that he had discovered the hidden pain.

"Thank goodness, nothing is beyond fixing, and we will still be happy. A complete change will happen; you won’t dedicate yourself to me anymore, but I will dedicate myself to you. Will you go away and forget this gloomy home until its peace becomes appealing, Sylvia?"

"No, Geoffrey, not yet. I will learn to make the home pleasant, I will work harder, and I won’t leave any time for boredom and dissatisfaction. I promised to make you happy, and I can do that better here than anywhere else. Let me try again."

"No, Sylvia, you work too hard already; you do everything with such intensity that you exhaust your body before your mind gets tired, and that leads to sadness. I'm easily convinced, but when I see actions contradicting words, I stop believing. These past months make it clear that you aren't happy; have I uncovered the secret pain that's bothering you?"

She didn’t respond, because she couldn’t speak the truth, and wouldn’t say anything untrue. He got up, paced back and forth, searching his memory, heart, and conscience for any other reason but found nothing, seeing only one way to escape his confusion. He pulled up a chair in front of her, sat down, and gazing at her with the commanding look on his face, asked simply—

"Sylvia, have I been controlling, unfair, or unkind since you came to me?"

"Oh, Geoffrey, so generous, so fair, so caring!"

"Have I claimed any rights other than what you gave me, asked for or demanded any sacrifices deliberately and intentionally?"

"Not happening."

"Now I assert my right to understand your feelings; I ask and insist on one thing: your trust."

Then she sensed that the moment had arrived and tried to prepare herself to face it by reminding herself that she had tried prayerfully, desperately, and hopelessly to do her duty, but had failed. Warwick was right; she couldn’t forget him. There was so much life in the man and in the feelings he stirred that it made his memory more powerful than the actual presence of her husband. The knowledge of his love now unraveled the progress that ignorance had helped patience and pride to achieve before. The more she fought to forget, the deeper and more precious the longing grew that she had to deny, until months of fruitless effort convinced her that it was impossible to outlast a passion stronger than will, remorse, or determination. Now she understood the wisdom of Adam's warning and felt that he knew both his friend's heart and her own better than she did. Now she regretted bitterly that she hadn’t spoken up when he was there to support her, and before even a little deceit had taken the dignity from her sorrow. Nevertheless, although she was trembling, she made a decision; and while Moor talked on, she prepared to make up for her past silence with complete loyalty to the truth.

"My wife, hiding things isn't generous. The worst troubles shared together couldn't take away the joy from my life, the warmth from our home, or make me more miserable than this lack of trust. It's a double disappointment, because you're not only disturbing my peace, but you're also ruining your own by wasting your health and happiness trying to carry some burden on your own. You rarely look me in the eye now, your words are measured, your actions are careful, and your cheerful spirit has disappeared. You keep your heart hidden from me, you hide your face; I feel like I've lost the open girl I loved and found a sad woman who suffers in silence until her honest nature breaks free and leads her to confess in her sleep. There isn't a part of my life that I haven't shown you openly; don't I deserve the same honesty? Will I not receive it?"

Yes.

"Sylvia, what's keeping us apart?"

"Adam Warwick."

Earnest as a prayer, brief as a command had been the[230] question, instantaneous was the reply, as Sylvia knelt down before him, pushed back the veil that should never hide her from him anymore, looked up into her husband's face without a trace of doubt in her own, and calmly shared everything.

The revelation was completely unexpected, too hard to believe to accept or understand right away. Moor flinched at the name, then leaned in, breathless and focused, as if to catch the words before they left her mouth; words that brought to mind dark and meaningless incidents until the spark of understanding triggered a flood of memories that hit him with terrible speed. Blinded by his own loyalty, the knowledge of Adam's love and loss felt like proof of his devotion; the idea that he loved Sylvia had never crossed his mind and seemed unbelievable even when she said it. She had been right to worry about how this knowledge would affect him. It pricked his pride, broke his heart, and forever tainted his belief in love and friendship. As the truth crashed over him, cold and bitter like a wave from the sea, she saw the still, white grief and outrage forming on his face, suffering with all a woman's pain and a man's intense passion. His gaze turned fiery and stern, the veins in his forehead stood out dark, the lines around his mouth became hard and grim, and his whole face changed dramatically. As she watched, Sylvia thanked heaven that Warwick wasn't there to experience the sudden retribution for an innocent mistake that his friend might have demanded before this natural but unworthy temptation had passed.

"Now I've given you all my trust, even if it might have broken both our hearts in the process. I don't expect forgiveness right now, but I know I’ll get pity, and I leave my future in your hands. Geoffrey, what should I do?"[231]

"Wait for me," and pushing her aside, Moor left the room.

Suffering so much mentally that she forgot she had a body, Sylvia stayed where she was, leaning her head on her hands as she tried to remember what had happened and prepare herself for what was coming. Her first feeling was one of indescribable relief. The long struggle was over; the nagging worry was gone; there was nothing left to hide; she could be herself again, and her spirit lifted with some of its old bounce as the heavy burden was lifted. For a moment, she savored this hard-earned freedom, but then the realization that the burden hadn’t vanished but had been passed to someone else filled her with pain too intense to express in tears, too profound to leave any hope of healing except through action. But how could she act? She had been carrying out this duty for so long, so futilely postponed, and when the first rush of satisfaction faded, she found herself facing increased anxiety, regret, and pain. The harsh truth stood clear before her, and no power of hers could take back the words that revealed it to her husband or return them to the early blindness, or the later ups and downs of hope and fear. In the long silence that filled the room, she had time to steady her agitation and soothe her remorse with the vague but reassuring belief that seldom leaves optimistic people, that something, still unseen and unexpected, would emerge to mend the rift, show what needed to be done, and ultimately bring happiness.

Where Moor went or how long he stayed, Sylvia never knew, but when he finally returned, her first glance revealed that pride can be as dangerous as passion. No gold is pure, and now she saw the shadow of a nature that had once seemed entirely bright. She knew he was very proud, but she never thought she would be the cause of its saddest[232] expression; one that showed her that its presence could make the quiet sorrow of a just and gentle man a harder burden to bear than the fiercest anger or the harshest reproach. He looked barely paler than when he left, showing no signs of violent emotion on his face. His eyes were sharp and dark, an anxious crease crossed his forehead, and a sad seriousness had taken the place of the cheerful calm he had once displayed. Sylvia couldn't identify what had changed, but something subtle had transformed him. The sudden chill that had struck the deepest affection of his life seemed to linger, draining his demeanor of its warm charm, his voice of its cheerful tone, and giving him the air of someone who sternly said—"I must suffer, but I will do it alone."

Cold and quiet, he stood looking at her with a strange expression, as if trying to grasp the truth and see in her not his wife but Warwick's lover. Weighed down by old fears, now intensified by deep regret, she could only look up at him, feeling that her husband had turned into her judge. Yet, as she gazed at him, she felt a fleeting wonder at the surprising change in character of the two people she held so close. Strong-hearted Warwick wept like a child but accepted his disappointment without complaint and faced it bravely. Moor, from whom she would have expected such an emotional display, became stormy first, then stern, just as she once thought his friend would have done. She forgot that Moor's pain was sharper, his wound deeper, because of the patient hope he had clung to for so long; the knowledge that he had never been, and never could be, loved as he loved; the sense of wrong that would surely burn even in the most gentle heart at such a late revelation, such a complete loss.[233]

Sylvia spoke first, not out loud, but with a small gesture of pleading, a look of sad acceptance. He responded to both her unspoken plea and her sad eyes, not with complaints or blame, but with just enough of his usual tenderness in his touch and tone to make her tears flow as he set her down in the old chair they often shared, took the seat across from her, and cleared a space on the table between them. He looked across it with the determination of a man focused on finding his path and following it no matter what.

"Now Sylvia, I can listen like I’m supposed to."

"Oh, Geoffrey, what am I supposed to say?"

"Repeat everything you just told me. I only picked up one fact before, but now I want the details because I find this confession hard to believe."

Maybe no harsher punishment could have been demanded of her than to sit there, face to face, eye to eye, and recount that little story of unfulfilled love and wasted effort again. The thrill had given her the bravery for the first confession, but now it was torture to carefully repeat what had flowed so easily from her lips before. But she did it, eager to show her remorse through any test he might impose. Tears often blurred her vision, uncontrollable emotions frequently stopped her; and more than once she gave him a pleading look that clearly asked, "Do I have to keep going?"

Determined to learn everything, Moor was unaware of the burden he placed on her, not realizing that the change in himself was the most painful reminder he could have offered. Yet, with a persistence that was gentle yet unyielding, he remained focused on his goal until the very end. When large tears rolled down her cheeks, he silently wiped them away; when she paused, he waited patiently for her to collect herself; and when she spoke, he listened with few interruptions, asking a question every now and then. Occasionally, a sudden rush of intense pain crossed his face as some phrase, hinting at Warwick's love or Sylvia's longing, slipped from the narrator's mouth. When she described their farewell at that very spot, his gaze shifted from her to the hearth, which her words made feel so empty—a look she could never forget. But once the last question was answered and the final plea for forgiveness was shakily expressed, all that remained was pale pride; his voice was as cold and calm as his demeanor.

"Yes, this is what has confused me and left me struggling in the dark for so long, because I completely trusted what I completely loved."

"Sadly, it was that same confidence that made my job feel so important and so difficult. How often I wished I could come to you with my big problem like I did with the smaller ones. But in this case, you would suffer more than I would; and since I was the one who messed up, it was my responsibility to face the consequences. So, like many other weak but willing souls, I tried to keep you happy no matter what."

"One honest word before I married you would have saved us from this. Couldn’t you see the ending and have the courage to say it, Sylvia?"

"I see it clearly now, but I didn’t back then; otherwise, I would have spoken as openly as I do tonight. I thought I had moved past my love for Adam; it felt kind to keep from you something that would disrupt your friendship. So, while I told part of the truth, I didn’t share everything. I believed temptations came from the outside; I could resist those, and I did, even when they took the form of Adam. This temptation came on so suddenly, seemed so harmless, generous, and fair, that I gave in, not even realizing it was a temptation. I certainly deceived myself as much as I deceived you, and God knows I have tried to make up for it once I learned my terrible mistake."[235]

"Poor child, it was too early for you to be playing the dangerous game of love. I should have realized it and let you enjoy the safe and simple pleasures of being young. I’m sorry I’ve kept you trapped for so long; remove the chains I placed on you, and go, Sylvia."

"No, please don’t push me away just yet; don’t think I could hurt you like that and then be happy to leave you in pain all by yourself. Try to show me your kind self if you can; talk to me like you used to; let me open my heart to you and you’ll see how big a part you play in it. Let me start over, because now that the secret is out, there’s no fear stopping love; and I can fully commit to learning the lesson you’ve tried so patiently to teach."

"You can't, Sylvia. We’re as divorced as if a judge and jury had decided our tough separation for us. You can never be a wife to me with this unshakeable love in your heart; I can never be your husband as long as there’s even a hint of fear. I want it all or nothing."

"Adam predicted this. He understood you better than anyone, and I should have listened to the wise advice he gave me a long time ago. Oh, if only he were here to help us now!"

The desire burst from Sylvia's lips without her realizing it as she looked for strength from the strong soul that loved her. But it was like wind to smoldering fire; a pang of jealousy twisted Moor's heart, and he spoke with a flash in his eye that shocked Sylvia more than the sudden change in his voice and demeanor.

"Hush! You can say anything about yourself or me, and I can handle it, but please keep Adam's name out of this conversation tonight. A man's nature isn't as forgiving as a woman's, and even the best of us have urges you know nothing about. If I'm[236] about to lose my wife, my friend, and my home, for God's sake, let me keep my self-respect."

All the coldness and pride disappeared from Moor's face as the peak of his sorrow hit him; with a sudden movement, he threw his arms across the table and laid his head down in a fit of tearless pain that only men truly understand.

How Sylvia wished she could speak! But what comfort could the kindest words offer? She looked for some comforting suggestion, some happier hope; none came. Her eyes turned pleadingly to the painted Fates above her, as if asking them for help. But they stared back at her in silence, and instinctively her thoughts drifted beyond them to the Ruler of all fates, seeking the help that is always given. No words captured her plea, no sound expressed it, only a silent cry from deep within a remorseful spirit, acknowledging its weakness and revealing its need. She prayed for acceptance, but her deeper need was clear, and when she asked for patience to endure, Heaven granted her the strength to act, emerging from this fierce trial with a greater strength and clearer understanding of herself than years of easier experiences could have provided. A sense of security, of stability, washed over her as that total reliance assured her, through its all-sustaining power, that she had found what she truly needed to make life clear and duty fulfilling. With her face in her hands, she sat, oblivious to the fact that she was not alone, as in that brief but precious moment she felt the incredible comfort of a childlike faith in the one Friend who, when everyone else leaves us—even ourselves—extends His hand and gently gathers us to Him.

Her husband's voice brought her back to reality, and when she looked up, her sincere and patient expression moved him deeply, almost like a silent reprimand. The first tears she had seen appeared in his eyes, and all the old affection returned to his voice, making the earlier coldness of his dismissal feel softer.

"Dear, silence and rest are the best for both of us tonight. We can't handle this problem as we should until we’re calmer; then we’ll figure out how to quickly end what should have never been started. Forgive me, pray for me, and for now, forget me in your sleep for a little while."

He held the door for her, but as she walked by, Sylvia looked up for the goodnight kiss she had always given him since they got married. She didn’t say anything, but her gaze quietly asked for this sign of forgiveness; and it was granted. Moor placed his hand over her lips, saying, "these belong to Adam now," and kissed her on the forehead.

Such a small thing: but it hit Sylvia with the heavy realization of the loss they both experienced, and she quietly slipped away, feeling like a stranger in the heart and home where she could never again be the joyful mistress.

Moor watched the small figure climb up, quietly crying as it ascended, almost as if he was mirroring the sorrowful "never again" that those tears conveyed. And when it disappeared with one last glance, he shut himself in, alone with his deep sadness.

Sylvia rested her head on her pillow, convinced that[238] this night would be the longest and saddest she had ever experienced. But before she could even let out a sigh for sleep, it wrapped her in its comforting embrace and held her until dawn. Sunshine poured into the room, and early birds chirped from the budding branches swaying outside the window. But no morning smile greeted her, no morning flower awaited her, and all that lay on the wrinkled pillow beside her was a small note.

"Sylvia, I’ve gone away to Faith because this proud, resentful part of me needs to be tamed before I see you. I’m leaving behind what will talk to you more gently and calmly than I can right now and show you that my effort matches my failure. I have no choice but to submit; bravely if I must, gently if I can; and this short time apart will prepare me for the longer separation that’s ahead. Talk to those who are closer and more important to you than I am, and ensure the happiness that I’ve so thoughtlessly delayed, but can’t intentionally ruin. May God be with you, and through everything that is and is to come, remember that you will always be cherished in the heart of Geoffrey Moor."

Sylvia had experienced many heartbreaking revolts, but none as heartbreaking as this one, and the hours that followed aged her more than [239] any year ever had. All day, she wandered back and forth aimlessly, unable to find peace because of the inner turmoil she felt. The house no longer felt like home without its guiding spirit, and everywhere she looked, some reminder of his past presence filled her with silent accusations.

She didn’t seek advice from her family, knowing all too well the backlash of anger, disbelief, and sorrow that would come her way. They couldn’t help her right now; they would only add to her confusion, weaken her resolve, and distract her thoughts. When she was certain of herself, she would talk to them, face their outrage and disappointment, and firmly follow through on her new plans, whatever they may be.

To many, it might seem easy to break away from a burdensome relationship and embrace one that brings blessings. But Sylvia had become wise about herself and cautious through self-deception; the more freedom she was given, the more she hesitated to use it. The more admirable each friend became as she switched from one to the other, the more impossible her choice felt, as the generous spirit and loving heart battled for control but neither prevailed. She realized that Moor had pushed her away for good, never to return until some miracle made her truly his. This decision revealed how much Moor meant to her, how completely she had come to rely on him, and how great a gift such perfect love was in itself. Even the idea of a life with Warwick brought anxieties along with hope. Reason made her aware of doubts that passion had previously silenced. Would she never grow tired of his restlessness? Could she truly fill such a big heart and provide both power and warmth? Might their wills clash, their passionate natures ignite one another, the stronger intellect drain the weaker, and disappointment come back again? And as she pondered these questions, her conscience, the advisor who can't be bribed or silenced, always responded "Yes."

But the biggest worry weighing on her was one that became more stressful the more she thought about it. By her own choice, she had handed her freedom over to someone else; the law agreed with her decision, and her promise was backed by faith, but she could only get it back by paying the hefty price required of those who admit they've lost in the marriage lottery. Public opinion is a harsh specter that intimidates even the bravest, and Sylvia realized that challenges awaited her that would make her shrink back and suffer, just as a sensitive and proud woman like her could. Once this situation was acknowledged, any person's words could hurt her, any gaze could look at her with pity or disdain, and any stranger could judge or denounce her, leaving her without any way to fight back or find solace, even in that fortress, Adam's heart.

All that gloomy day she struggled with these stubborn facts, but couldn’t shape or change them like she wanted, and by evening she was exhausted, yet still uncertain. Too restless for sleep, but too tired for any effort, she headed to bed, hoping that the darkness and quiet of the night would offer some guidance, if not peace.

Until now, she had avoided the library like one avoids a place that brings back painful memories. But as she walked by the open door, the darkness inside felt just like the sadness that had befallen its absent owner, and on a whim, Sylvia stepped in to brighten it up with the small light from her lamp. Nothing had been disturbed, as only she kept this room in order, and all household chores had been ignored that day.[241] The old chair was exactly where she had left it, and over its arm hung the velvet coat, part dressing-gown and part blouse, that Moor liked to wear during their secret meetings. Sylvia bent down to smooth it out, and feeling the need for some comfort, pressed her cheek against the soft fabric, whispering "Good night." Something sparkled on the chair's cushion, and as she got closer, she discovered a steel-clasped book resting there, with a dead heliotrope and a small key on top of it.

It was Moor's Diary, and now she understood the part of the note that had been unclear before. "I leave behind what will speak to you more kindly and calmly than I can now, and show you that my effort has matched my failure." She had often begged to read it, threatened to pick the lock, and felt a strong curiosity to find out what was in the long entries he made every day. Her requests had always been met with the promise of having the whole book when the year was up. Now he gave it to her, even though the year wasn’t over and many pages were still blank. He thought she would come to this room first, see her morning flower laid out for her, and while sitting in what they called their Refuge, find some comfort for herself, some way to ease his innocent offense, from the abruptly ended record.

She took it, went to her own room, unlocked the short story of his married life, and found her husband's heart exposed before her.

It was a strange and serious thing to look so deeply into the private experiences of another person; to trace the birth and development of their purposes and passions, the reasons behind their actions, the hidden desires, and the recurring flaws that shaped the inner life they had been living alongside her. Moor wrote[242] with heartfelt sincerity, because he had poured himself into his book, as if needing a confidante he had chosen the only one that forgives self-centeredness. Here, too, Sylvia saw her ever-changing self, depicted with loving attention, filled with all gifts and charms, examined with relentless enthusiasm, and turned into the center of a life.

Often, a musical spirit seemed to come to life, moving from smooth prose to even smoother poetry—sonnets, songs, or psalms—flowing down the page in dignified, sweet, or solemn rhythms, filling the reader with joy at finding a talent so genuine, yet so quietly contained within itself, unaware that its modesty was the strongest sign of its value. More than once, Sylvia buried her face in the book and added her unintentional thoughts on some poem or passage made poignant by the present; and more than once, she paused to wonder, in amazement, why she couldn't reward such genius and affection. If she needed any proof of the hard truth she struggled to accept, this opening of his innermost self would have provided it. For while she felt deep sorrow over the blow she had dealt his hopeful dreams, it no longer seemed possible to change her stubborn heart or lessen by even a little the debt she sadly believed could only be repaid in friendship's silver, not love's gold.

All night she lay there like a painted Magdalene, purer but just as repentant as Correggio's Mary, with the book, the lamp, the sad eyes, and the golden hair that artists adore. All night she read, drawing strength, not comfort, from those pages, because seeing what she wasn’t showed her what she could become; and when she locked away that unfinished story, Sylvia the girl was gone, but Sylvia the woman had started to live.[243]

Lying in the soft glow of dawn, a sudden memory washed over her—

"If you ever need help that Geoffrey can't provide, just remember cousin Faith."

This was the moment Faith had predicted; Moor had come to her with his issues, so why not go to her and let this woman, smart, thoughtful, and kind, guide him on what to do next?

The newly risen sun watched as Sylvia set off on her journey to Faith's home in the hills. She lived alone, a cheerful, busy, solitary person, asking little from others, yet giving freely to anyone who asked her for help.

Sylvia discovered the gray cottage tucked into a dip in the mountainside; a charming retreat, safe and quiet. It was just her and the maid who ran the household, but the loneliness of isolation didn’t cast a shadow on the sunshine that filled it; peace felt like it was resting at the door, happily lingering under the eaves, and the warm feel of home made it lovely.

When a significant purpose or event grabs our attention, we push past our fears and formalities, truly express ourselves without holding back, and use straightforward words to convey emotions that don’t need embellishment or much help from language. Sylvia showed this perfectly; without any hesitation or awkwardness, she walked into Miss Dane's room, didn’t call for a servant to announce her, and instinctively headed straight to the room where Faith was sitting alone, greeting her simply by asking—

"Is Geoffrey around?"

"He was here an hour ago and will be here again in an hour. I sent him out to take a break because he can’t sleep. I’m glad you came to see him; he hasn't learned how to manage without you yet."

With no flurry of surprise or sympathy, Faith put away[244] her work, took off her hat and coat, pulled her guest beside her on the couch before the large window overlooking the valley, and gently warmed Sylvia's cold hands in hers, saying nothing more until Sylvia spoke.

"He’s told you everything I’ve done wrong to him?"

"Yes, and I found some comfort here. Do you need comfort too?"

"Can you ask? But I need something more, and no one can give it to me as well as you. I want to get it right, to hear things called by their real names, to be taken out of myself and shown why I'm always messing up while trying to do good."

"Your dad, sister, or brother are better suited for that task than I am. Have you asked them?"

"No, and I won’t. They care about me, but they can’t really help; they would just ask me to hide things if I can’t forget, to put up with it if I can’t overcome it, and to stick to my mistake no matter what. That’s not the kind of help I need. I want to know the one thing I should do and to be brave enough to do it, even if my friends are upset, gossipers are talking, and the world falls apart. I’m serious now. Criticize me harshly, expose my weaknesses, shame my foolishness, and don’t hold back on my selfish wishes; and when I can’t hide from myself anymore, point me in the right direction, and I’ll follow it even if my feet hurt with every step."

She was serious now, really serious, but still Faith stepped back, even though her compassionate expression contradicted her unsure words.

"Go to Adam; who is wiser or more fair than he?"

"I can’t. Both he and Geoffrey care about me too much to make decisions for me. You’re caught between them, as wise as one and as gentle as the other, but you don’t care about me enough[245] to let love cloud your judgment. Honestly, you asked me to come; don’t push me away, because if you close your heart to me, I don’t know where to turn."

Despairing, she spoke; disheartened, she looked, and Faith's hesitation faded away. The nurturing side of her came back, her voice regained its warmth, her eyes their kindness, and Sylvia felt reassured even before a word was said.

"I’m not rejecting you or closing my heart. I just hesitated to take on that responsibility and pulled back from the task out of compassion, not indifference. Sit here and tell me all your troubles, Sylvia?"

"That’s so nice! It feels totally natural to reach out to you like I have a right to do so. Please, if you can, care for me a little, because I don’t have a mother, and I really need one."

"My child, you won't need one anymore."

"I feel that, and I'm already comforted. Faith, if you were in my position, loved by two men, either of whom any woman would be proud to call her husband, putting aside your own needs, which one would you choose?"

"To neither option."

Sylvia turned pale and shook, as if the oracle she had called upon was an undeniable voice declaring the unavoidable. She looked at Faith's expression for a moment, trying to grasp her meaning, couldn't find it, and whispered under her breath—

"Can I ask why?"

"Since your husband is, your lover should be your friend and nothing more. You haven't quite learned the lesson that many have to grasp, which is that friendship can’t replace love, yet it should be cherished and seen as a stricter guide that can make life very wonderful for those who recognize its value and deserve its joys. Adam taught me this, because even though Geoffrey took you from him, he still held onto his friend, not allowing disappointment to spoil things, envy to create distance, or resentment to ruin the perfect friendship built over years of loyalty between them.[246]"

"Yes!" shouted Sylvia, "how I've admired Adam for his loyalty, and how I've looked down on myself because I couldn't be as wise and faithful in the earlier, safer feelings I had for Geoffrey."

"Be smart and trustworthy now; stop being the wife, but stay the friend; give everything you can with honesty, just not a bit more."

"Never has a man had a truer friend than I will be to him—if he allows me. But honestly, if I can be that to Geoffrey, can't I be something closer and more special to Adam? Wouldn't you hope for that if you were in my shoes?"

"No, Sylvia, never."

"Why not?"

"If you were blind, disabled, or stuck with some incurable illness, wouldn't you pause before tying yourself and your struggles to someone else?"

"You know I shouldn't just hesitate, but completely refuse."

"I know this, so I’m going to explain why, in my opinion, you shouldn't marry Adam. I can't express it as clearly as I should, but I'll try to guide you on where to find the reason behind my seemingly harsh advice. There are diseases that are subtler and more dangerous than any physical ailments; they should be treated with as much care when possible and prevented with as much urgency as any illness we fear. A weak will, a troubled mind, a bad temper, a corrupted heart, a blinded soul are issues that deserve attention just as much as physical illnesses. In fact, even more so, since souls are more valuable than temporary flesh. Where this understanding is genuinely taught, believed, and practiced, marriage truly becomes a sacred blessing from God; children appreciate their parents for the gift of life; parents see their children as sources of joy and fulfillment, not as burdens or punishments that are doubly hard to endure, knowing that when two people sin, many others will inevitably suffer."

"You try to tell me gently, Faith, but I see that you think of me as one of the unfortunate innocents who shouldn’t marry until they’re healed, and that might never happen. I’ve had a vague sense of this over the past year, but now I’m sure of it, and I thank God that I don’t have a child to blame me later for passing on the mental struggles I haven’t overcome yet."

"Dear Sylvia, you are an exceptional case in every way because you’re an extreme one. The old belief in two opposing spirits in one body is oddly represented in you, as each one takes charge at different times, influencing you based on your moods and circumstances. Even during the significant moments in a woman’s life, you faced obstacles from conflicting forces: impulse and ignorance, passion and pride, hope and despair. Now you find yourself at a crossroads, gazing longingly down the appealing path where Adam seems to call you, while I guide you toward the difficult path I’ve traveled. My heart aches as I do this, but I advise you as I would my own daughter."

"I appreciate it, I’ll follow you, but my life feels really empty if I have to give up my desires."

"Not as empty as if you got what you wanted, only to find it brought you more pain and regret. If you could have loved Geoffrey, things might have gone well for you; loving Adam, it is not the case. Let me explain why. He is[248] an exception like you; maybe that’s why you’re drawn to each other. In him, reason leads, while in Geoffrey, it’s all about the heart. One critiques, while the other loves humanity. Geoffrey is proud and reserved in everything that matters most to him, holds on to people, and is as loyal as a woman. Adam has only the pride of his intellect, which tests everything and relies on its own understanding. He clings to principles; people are just lively facts or ideas to him; he engages, examines, and utilizes them, and when they no longer serve him, he discards them like a shell, having harvested its core; moving on to find and explore new examples without regret, yet with relentless enthusiasm. For him, life is all about constant growth, and he follows his nature as steadily as the sun or the sea. Isn’t that true?"

"All true; what else, Faith?"

"Few women, if they're smart, would dare to marry this man, no matter how noble and deserving of love he is, until time has softened his edges and experience has shaped him. Even then, the risk is significant because he demands and unintentionally takes on the personalities of those around him, giving back in return, but in a way that only those as strong, wise, and steady as he is can handle and adapt for their own purposes, without being overwhelmed or consumed. None of us should be, except by a Spirit stronger than man, purer than woman. You sense this power, even if you don’t fully understand it. You know that his presence both excites and drains you; that while you love him, you also fear him, and even when you wish to be everything to him, you question your ability to make him happy. Am I right?"

"I have to say yes."

"Then, I hardly need to tell you that I believe this unequal marriage would be short-lived for[249] you; it would start off bright but end in darkness. With him, you would wear yourself out passionately trying to keep up with him. He wouldn't realize it, and you wouldn't admit it, but too late you both might discover that you were too young, too eager, and too fragile in every way except for the strength of love to be his wife. It's like a small bird trying to mate with an eagle, straining its tiny wings to fly high with him, blinding itself by staring at the sun, working hard to fill and warm the wild nest that becomes its home, and ultimately perishing in the harsh solitude that the eagle loves. Yet, it's too fond and loyal to regret the safer nest in the grass, the gentler partner it could have had, the summer life, and the winter migration south for which it was meant."

"Faith, you scare me; you seem to see and reveal all the dark feelings I've hidden inside myself, because I either couldn’t understand them or was too afraid to confront them. How have you learned so much? How can you read me so well? And who told you these things about all of us?"

"I had an unhappy childhood in a chaotic home; early worries and losses made me feel older than my years and taught me to watch how others managed their struggles. Since then, solitude has driven me to study and think about the questions that my mind keeps returning to. Geoffrey shared a lot about you and your past, but Adam shared even more."

"Have you seen him? Has he been here? When, seriously, when?"

Light and color returned to Sylvia's face, and the joyful eagerness in her voice was a welcome sound after the despairing tones that had come before. Faith sighed but answered openly and carefully, her expression full of compassion growing deeper as she spoke.

"I saw him just a week ago, as passionate and energetic as ever. He has come here often during the winter, has watched you without being seen, and brought me news about you that made Geoffrey's revelation hardly surprising. He said you wanted him to find out about you through me, that he preferred to come in person rather than write, because letters can often misinterpret things, but when you meet face to face, you really understand what your friend is thinking by their expression as well as their words, and the outcome is satisfying."

"That's Adam! But what else did he say? How did you advise him? I know he asked for your advice, just like we all have."

"He did, and I shared everything as openly as I did with you and Geoffrey. He helped me see you clearly, judge you kindly, and recognize the strengths you’ve held onto despite the challenges few others face. Your father had Adam as his confidant during that joyful month when you first got to know him. I don’t need to remind you how he honored and kept that trust. He didn’t betray any confidence, but when he spoke about you, it was clear that his understanding of your father helped him understand you as well. It was truly well done and beautiful, and if we needed anything to make us appreciate him more, this quality would be it. It’s a rare gift, the ability to overcome all barriers of pride, age, and the heavy restraint that self-blame brings, turning confession into a healing experience."

"I know it; we share our troubles with people like Geoffrey and our wrongdoings with people like Adam. But, Faith, when you talked about me, did you tell him what you've been saying to me about how I'm not fit to be his wife because of our differences and my unfortunate background?"

"Could I do anything different when he looked at me with that intense gaze and asked, 'Is my love as wise as it is [251]warm?' He's one of those people who pull the toughest truths out of us simply because they can handle it, and would do the same for us. He needed that insight then, because while his instincts were right—which is why he asked with such concern—his heart, more stirred than ever before, made it hard for him to understand your relationship with each other, and that’s where my intuition as a woman came in."

"What did he say when you told him? I can see you're still hesitating to tell me. I think you've been getting me ready to hear this. Just say it. Even though my cheeks turn pale and my hands shake, I can handle it because you will be the standard I follow."

"You need to be your own guide, my brave Sylvia. Take my hands and hold tight to the friend who loves and respects you for this. I will share what Adam did and said. He sat in deep thought for several minutes; for him, seeing equals doing, and soon he turned to me with that brave look he has, which means he’s ready for the fight and has already won. 'It’s important to be fair, but it’s not essential to be happy. I will never marry Sylvia, even if I can,'—and with that twist on words that seemed to fit his situation, he left. I don’t think he will return to either me or you."

How quiet the room became as Faith's hesitant lips spoke the final words! Sylvia sat still, gazing out at the sunny valley, with eyes that saw nothing but the image of her beloved friend leaving her, possibly forever. She understood well that to see this man was to act, and with a heavy feeling of desolation settling coldly on her heart, she realized there was nothing left to hope for except a brave acceptance like his. Yet in that moment of silence, she felt a sense of relief after the initial despair. The power of choice was no longer hers, and the help she needed came from someone who could defer his own decisions, driven by a feeling that tempered a strong man's desire for power and made it subject to a just man's commitment to what is right. Great examples never lose their significance; what Pompey was to Warwick that Warwick became to Sylvia, and in her moment of deepest sorrow, she felt the fire of noble inspiration igniting within her from the spark he left behind.

"Faith, what's next?"

"This," she said, holding Faith close while she shared how tough her experience had been, letting tears fall quickly onto the head that seemed to have found its right place, as if despite her strength and wisdom, the woman's heart was half broken with compassion. Better than any words was the motherly embrace, the quiet tears, the precious balm of sympathy that eased the wounds it couldn't heal. Leaning on each other, the two hearts communicated in the silence, appreciating the beauty of the bond that kind Nature creates between hearts that should be connected. Faith often pressed her lips to Sylvia's forehead, pushed her hair back with a gentle touch, and pulled her closer as if it was very comforting to hold the little one in her arms. Sylvia lay there, without tears and peaceful; thinking thoughts she couldn’t express and trying to prepare herself for the life ahead, a life that now seemed very bleak. Her gaze still rested on the valley where the river flowed, the elms stirred their budding branches in the gentle breeze, and the meadows displayed their first hints of green. But she didn’t notice these things until a lone figure slowly made its way up the hill, bringing her back to the present and the responsibilities it still required of her.

[253]

"Here comes Geoffrey! Look at how tired he walks—how different and aged he appears—oh, why was I born to bring misery to everyone who loves me!"

"Hush, Sylvia, don't say that, because it puts shame on your father. Your life has just started; make it a blessing, not a curse, as we all have the ability to do; and remember that for every hardship, there are two allies that can help heal or end the worst we experience—Time and Death. We can call on the first and wait for it; the last is something only God can send when living becomes too difficult."

"I'll try to be patient. Will you meet and tell Geoffrey what happened? I have no strength left except for just getting through it."

Faith left; Sylvia heard the soft sound of serious conversation; then footsteps hurried down the hall, and Moor entered the room. She stood up instinctively, but for a moment, neither spoke, for they had never met like this before. Each looked at the other as if a year had passed since they last saw each other, recognizing the changes that just one day had brought. The anger and pride that once clouded Moor's face were gone. It now appeared anxious and drained, with new lines etched on his forehead and sad curves around his mouth, but the calm of a spirit that had been subdued gave it a gentle serenity, and a flicker of enduring hope shone in the look he directed toward his wife. For the first time in her life, Sylvia was genuinely beautiful—not in a physical sense, as she had never looked more frail and pale, but spiritually, as the inner transformation showed itself in an indescribable expression of humility and strength. With pain came acceptance, with regret came renewal, and the strength of the woman she would become added a touch of beauty to the heartbreak of the woman currently enduring her trials.[254]

"Faith has told you what happened between us, and you know that I've lost double," she said. "Let me add that I deserve this, that I clearly see my mistakes, will correct what I can, face the consequences of what can't be fixed, try to learn from it all, and not make any new ones. I can't be your wife, and I shouldn't be Adam's; but I can be myself, live my life alone, and being friends with both doesn't hurt anyone. This is my decision; I believe in it, I will stick to it, and if it's the right choice, God won't let me fail."

"I submit, Sylvia; I can still hope and wait."

So humbly he said it, so sincerely he meant it, she felt that his love was as strong as Warwick's will, and the desire to accept and appreciate it came back with all its original intensity. It was not possible; and though her heart grew heavier inside her, Sylvia answered calmly—

"No, Geoffrey, don’t hope or wait; just forgive me and forget me. Go abroad as you planned; travel far and stay away for a while. Change your life, and remember me only as the friend I used to be and still want to be."

"I'll leave, but I'll stay until you remember me. Even while you live your life alone, I'll continue to hope and wait."

This unwavering loyalty, so patient and so persistent, struck the listener like a prophecy, shook her confidence, stopped the words on her lips, and softened them.

"It’s not for someone as unstable as I am to say, 'I will never change.' I don't say it, even though I truly believe it, but I'll leave everything up to time. Surely I can do this; I can let distance gently and gradually change you or me; and as the one thing I can give back for everything you’ve done for me, let’s keep this bond between us unbroken for just a little[255] longer. Take this small consolation with you; it’s the best I can offer right now. I know that no matter how much I may disrupt your life in this world, there’s a beautiful eternity where you will forget me and be happy."

She provided him comfort, but he took away hers as he pulled her close, responding with a look more radiant than any smile—

"Love is eternal, my dear, and even in the 'beautiful forever' I will still hope and wait."

How quickly it all came to an end! the return to our own homes, the revelations, and the conflicts; the arrangements for the lonely journey, the final instructions and goodbyes.

Mark wouldn't go, and Prue couldn't go, to say goodbye to the traveler; Mark was too angry to support what he called a cruel banishment, and Prue, half-blind from crying, stayed to take care of Jessie, whose gentle heart was almost shattered by what she saw as the worst tragedy imaginable.

But Sylvia and her dad followed Moor until he stepped off the land, and they stayed on the wharf to watch the steamer leave the port. It was a tough place to say goodbye; carriages drove back and forth, voices filled the air, the little steamtug puffed with impatience, and the waves rolled out to sea with the outgoing tide. But all father and daughter noticed was Moor's face looking down at them from the deck, and they could only hear his cheerful voice sending messages to those he was leaving behind. Mr. Yule was trying to respond just as cheerfully, and Sylvia was watching with eyes that were blurred by tears, when they both noticed an immediate change in Moor’s expression. Something[256] beyond them seemed to catch his attention; for a moment he stood still and focused, then flushed to the forehead with the deep color Sylvia remembered well, waved goodbye to them, and disappeared down the cabin stairs.

"Dad, what did he see?"

There was no need for an answer; Adam Warwick walked confidently through the crowd, spotted them, stopped with both hands out, and a curious look as if unsure about his greeting. Without thinking, they took his hands; Sylvia couldn't say anything, but her father could, and he did so with approval—

"Welcome, Warwick; you’ve come to say goodbye to Geoffrey?"

"Actually, it’s up to you, sir; he doesn’t need anyone else, I'm going with him."

"With him!" echoed both listeners.

"Yeah, I will. Did you think I would just let him leave alone, feeling lost without a wife, a home, and a friend?"

"We should have understood you better. But, Warwick, he will avoid you; he just hid himself when you came near; he has tried to forgive, but he can't forget so quickly."

"That's even more reason for me to help him do both. He can't avoid me for long with nowhere to escape to but the sea, and I will gently persuade him with the love we once had for each other, so he has to give in and let me back into his heart."

"Oh, Adam! Go with him, stay with him, and bring him safely back to me when the time is right for all of us."

"I'll do it, if God is willing."

Unaware of everything else, Warwick leaned in and held her close as he made his promise, putting all of his feelings into one kiss that left her shaken by the intensity of his[257] goodbye. She watched him weave through the crowd, jump across the gap left by the recently removed gangway, and disappear in search of that missing friend. Then she rested her face on her father's shoulder, fully aware only that Warwick had come and gone.

A cannon fired, the crowd cheered, the last cable was tossed off, and the steamer smoothly pulled away from the dock with the rush of water and the breeze like a sea creature eager to be free in the ocean once more.

"Look up, Sylvia; she'll soon disappear from view."

"Are they here?"

"No."

"Then I don't want to see. Find me, Dad, and let me know when they arrive."

"They're not coming back, darling; both of them have said goodbye, and we'll be without them for quite a while."

"They're coming! Adam is bringing Geoffrey to show me that they’re friends again. I know it; you’ll see. Lift me up to that block and let’s watch the deck together so we can see them the moment they show up."

Up she jumped, her eyes clear now, nerves calm, faith strong. Leaning forward, completely lost in the moment, she would have fallen into the green water rushing below if her father hadn’t held her tightly. How slowly the minutes felt, how quickly the steamer seemed to drift away, how heavily the feeling of loss pressed on her heart as wave after wave rolled between her and what she truly wanted.

"Come down, Sylvia, it's pointless to put yourself through this pain by watching and waiting. Come home, my child, and let's support each other."

She didn't hear him because as he spoke, the steamer slowly turned to head into the open bay. With a shout that attracted many gazes to the young figure with the anxious look on her face, Sylvia saw her hope come true.

"I knew they would come! Look, Dad, look! Geoffrey is smiling and waving his handkerchief, and Adam has his hand on his shoulder. Answer them! Oh, answer them! I can only watch."

The old man answered them with enthusiasm, and Sylvia reached her arms across the growing distance as if trying to pull them back. Now the friends stood side by side; Moor's gaze was on his wife, while the little flag of peace fluttered in the wind from his hand. But Warwick was looking at his friend, and it was clear that his hand was already ready to take on the duty he had agreed to.

Standing like that, they disappeared from view, never to return home together as the woman on the shore was praying for God to let her see them come back.

The following six months felt busier and more eventful[259] than anything Sylvia had experienced before. At first, she struggled to live her life alone; the sense of isolation weighed heavily on her, and external challenges piled up. She only shared her troubles with a few trusted individuals who were meant to know. They kept quiet out of family pride, if not for any more caring reason; meanwhile, the outside world buzzed with speculation, eager to spot any cracks in her home life, and didn’t hesitate to gossip. Warwick remained under the radar, being so little known and rarely seen; but the usual local gossipmongers and elderly women shook their heads, raised their eyebrows, and sighed as they savored their cup of tea and the latest rumors—

"Poor young man! I always said how it would be, she was so unusual. My dear, haven't you heard that Mrs. Moor isn't happy with her husband, and that he's gone abroad totally heartbroken?"

Sylvia felt this intensely, but accepted it as her rightful punishment, and carried herself so humbly that public opinion quickly flipped, and the whispers changed to—