Sylvia's Lovers

Sylvia went slowly past the house and down the path leading to the

wild, deserted bit of garden. She saw that the last tenants had had

a pump sunk for them, and resented the innovation, as though the

well she was passing could feel the insult. Over it grew two

hawthorn trees; on the bent trunk of one of them she used to sit,

long ago: the charm of the position being enhanced by the possible

danger of falling into the well and being drowned. The rusty unused

chain was wound round the windlass; the bucket was falling to pieces

from dryness. A lean cat came from some outhouse, and mewed

pitifully with hunger; accompanying Sylvia to the garden, as if glad

of some human companionship, yet refusing to allow itself to be

touched. Primroses grew in the sheltered places, just as they

formerly did; and made the uncultivated ground seem less deserted

than the garden, where the last year's weeds were rotting away, and

cumbering the ground.

Sylvia forced her way through the berry bushes to the herb-plot, and

plucked the tender leaves she had come to seek; sighing a little all

the time. Then she retraced her steps; paused softly before the

house-door, and entered the porch and kissed the senseless wood.

She tried to tempt the poor gaunt cat into her arms, meaning to

carry it home and befriend it; but it was scared by her endeavour

and ran back to its home in the outhouse, making a green path across

the white dew of the meadow. Then Sylvia began to hasten home,

thinking, and remembering--at the stile that led into the road she

was brought short up.

Some one stood in the lane just on the other side of the gap; his

back was to the morning sun; all she saw at first was the uniform of

a naval officer, so well known in Monkshaven in those days.

Sylvia went hurrying past him, not looking again, although her

clothes almost brushed his, as he stood there still. She had not

gone a yard--no, not half a yard--when her heart leaped up and fell

again dead within her, as if she had been shot.

'Sylvia!' he said, in a voice tremulous with joy and passionate

love. 'Sylvia!' She looked round; he had turned a little, so that the light fell

straight on his face. It was bronzed, and the lines were

strengthened; but it was the same face she had last seen in

Haytersbank Gully three long years ago, and had never thought to see

in life again.

He was close to her and held out his fond arms; she went fluttering

towards their embrace, as if drawn by the old fascination; but when

she felt them close round her, she started away, and cried out with

a great pitiful shriek, and put her hands up to her forehead as if

trying to clear away some bewildering mist.