Sylvia's Lovers

'I must tell you that I cannot answer for her life, unless the

greatest precautions are taken on your part, and unless the measures

I shall use have the effect I wish for in the next twenty-four

hours. She is on the verge of a brain fever. Any allusion to the

subject which has been the final cause of the state in which she now

is must be most cautiously avoided, even to a chance word which may

bring it to her memory.' And so on; but Philip seemed to hear only this: then he might not

express contrition, or sue for pardon, he must go on unforgiven

through all this stress of anxiety; and even if she recovered the

doctor warned him of the undesirableness of recurring to what had

passed!

Heavy miserable times of endurance and waiting have to be passed

through by all during the course of their lives; and Philip had had

his share of such seasons, when the heart, and the will, and the

speech, and the limbs, must be bound down with strong resolution to

patience.

For many days, nay, for weeks, he was forbidden to see Sylvia, as

the very sound of his footstep brought on a recurrence of the fever

and convulsive movement. Yet she seemed, from questions she feebly

asked the nurse, to have forgotten all that had happened on the day

of her attack from the time when she dropped off to sleep. But how

much she remembered of after occurrences no one could ascertain. She

was quiet enough when, at length, Philip was allowed to see her. But

he was half jealous of his child, when he watched how she could

smile at it, while she never changed a muscle of her face at all he

could do or say.

And of a piece with this extreme quietude and reserve was her

behaviour to him when at length she had fully recovered, and was

able to go about the house again. Philip thought many a time of the

words she had used long before--before their marriage. Ominous words

they were.

'It's not in me to forgive; I sometimes think it's not in me to

forget.' Philip was tender even to humility in his conduct towards her. But

nothing stirred her from her fortress of reserve. And he knew she

was so different; he knew how loving, nay, passionate, was her

nature--vehement, demonstrative--oh! how could he stir her once more

into expression, even if the first show or speech she made was of

anger? Then he tried being angry with her himself; he was sometimes

unjust to her consciously and of a purpose, in order to provoke her

into defending herself, and appealing against his unkindness. He

only seemed to drive her love away still more.

If any one had known all that was passing in that household, while

yet the story of it was not ended, nor, indeed, come to its crisis,

their hearts would have been sorry for the man who lingered long at

the door of the room in which his wife sate cooing and talking to

her baby, and sometimes laughing back to it, or who was soothing the

querulousness of failing age with every possible patience of love;

sorry for the poor listener who was hungering for the profusion of

tenderness thus scattered on the senseless air, yet only by stealth

caught the echoes of what ought to have been his.