ect of a
life with Warwick brought forebodings with its hope. Reason made her
listen to many doubts which hitherto passion had suppressed. Would she
never tire of his unrest? Could she fill so large a heart and give it
power as well as warmth? Might not the two wills clash, the ardent
natures inflame one another, the stronger intellect exhaust the weaker,
and disappointment come again? And as she asked these questions,
conscience, the monitor whom no bribe can tempt, no threat silence,
invariably answered "Yes."

But chief among the cares that beset her was one that grew more
burdensome with thought. By her own will she had put her liberty into
another's keeping; law confirmed the act, gospel sanctioned the vow, and
it could only be redeemed by paying the costly price demanded of those
who own that they have drawn a blank in the lottery of marriage. Public
opinion is a grim ghost that daunts the bravest, and Sylvia knew that
trials lay before her from which she would shrink and suffer, as only a
woman sensitive and proud as she could shrink and suffer. Once apply
this remedy and any tongue would have the power to wound, any eye to
insult with pity or contempt, any stranger to criticise or condemn, and
she would have no means of redress, no place of refuge, even in that
stronghold, Adam's heart.

All that dreary day she wrestled with these stubborn facts, but could
neither mould nor modify them as she would, and evening found her spent,
but not decided. Too excited for sleep, yet too weary for exertion, she
turned bedward, hoping that the darkness and the silence of night would
bring good counsel, if not rest.

Till now she had shunned the library as one shuns the spot where one has
suffered most. But as she passed the open door the gloom that reigned
within seemed typical of that which had fallen on its absent master, and
following the impulse of the moment Sylvia went in to light it with the
little glimmer of her lamp. Nothing had been touched, for no hand but
her own preserved the order of this room, and all household duties had
been neglected on that day. The old chair stood where she had left it,
and over its arm was thrown the velvet coat, half dressing-gown, half
blouse, that Moor liked to wear at this household trysting-place. Sylvia
bent to fold it smoothly as it hung, and feeling that she must solace
herself with some touch of tenderness, laid her cheek against the soft
garment, whispering "Good night." Some