ent for an innocent
offence which his friend might have exacted before this natural but
unworthy temptation had passed by.

"Now I have given all my confidence though I may have broken both our
hearts in doing it. I do not hope for pardon yet, but I am sure of pity,
and I leave my fate in your hands. Geoffrey, what shall I do?"

"Wait for me," and putting her away, Moor left the room.

Suffering too much in mind to remember that she had a body, Sylvia
remained where she was, and leaning her head upon her hands tried to
recall what had passed, to nerve herself for what was to come. Her first
sensation was one of unutterable relief. The long struggle was over; the
haunting care was gone; there was nothing now to conceal; she might be
herself again, and her spirit rose with something of its old elasticity
as the heavy burden was removed. A moment she enjoyed this hard-won
freedom, then the memory that the burden was not lost but laid on other
shoulders, filled her with an anguish too sharp to find vent in tears,
too deep to leave any hope of cure except in action. But how act? She
had performed the duty so long, so vainly delayed, and when the first
glow of satisfaction passed, found redoubled anxiety, regret, and pain
before her. Clear and hard the truth stood there, and no power of hers
could recall the words that showed it to her husband, could give them
back the early blindness, or the later vicissitudes of hope and fear. In
the long silence that filled the room she had time to calm her
perturbation and comfort her remorse by the vague but helpful belief
which seldom deserts sanguine spirits, that something, as yet unseen and
unsuspected, would appear to heal the breach, to show what was to be
done, and to make all happy in the end.

Where Moor went or how long he stayed Sylvia never knew, but when at
length he came, her first glance showed her that pride is as much to be
dreaded as passion. No gold is without alloy, and now she saw the shadow
of a nature which had seemed all sunshine. She knew he was very proud,
but never thought to be the cause of its saddest manifestation; one
which showed her that its presence could make the silent sorrow of a
just and gentle man a harder trial to sustain than the hottest anger,
the bitterest reproach. Scarcely paler than when he went, there was no
sign of violent emotion in his countenance. His eye shone keen and dark,
an anxious fold crossed his forehead, and a melancholy grav