She lit her candle and wrote another letter, of the shortest.  It contained but these few words: 

“Oh, please forgive me!  Come back and forgive.  Oh, you must!—­SYLVIA.”

And having written them, Sylvia stole quietly down-stairs, let herself out at the door and posted them.

Two nights afterward she leaned out of her window at midnight, wondering whether by the morrow’s post she would receive an answer to her message.  And while she wondered she understood that the answer would not come that way.  For suddenly in the moonlit road beneath her, she saw standing the one who was to send it.  Chayne had brought his answer himself.  For a moment she distrusted her own eyes, believing that her thoughts had raised this phantom to delude her.  But the figure in the road moved beneath her window and she heard his voice call to her: 

“Sylvia!  Sylvia!”

CHAPTER XIX

THE SHADOW IN THE ROOM

Sylvia raised her hand suddenly, enjoining silence, and turned back into the room.  She had heard a door slam violently within the house; and now from the hall voices rose.  Her father and Walter Hine were coming up early to-night from the library, and it seemed in anger.  At all events Walter Hine was angry.  His voice rang up the stairway shrill and violent.

“Why do you keep it from me?  I will have it, I tell you.  I am not a child,” and an oath or two garnished the sentences.

Sylvia heard her father reply with the patronage which never failed to sting the vanity of his companion, which was the surest means to provoke a quarrel, if a quarrel he desired.

“Go to bed, Wallie!  Leave such things to Archie Parminter!  You are too young.”

His voice was friendly, but a little louder than he generally used, so that Sylvia clearly distinguished every word; so clearly indeed, that had he wished her to hear, thus he would have spoken.  She heard the two men mount the stairs, Hine still protesting with the violence which had grown on him of late; Garratt Skinner seeking apparently to calm him, and apparently oblivious that every word he spoke inflamed Walter Hine the more.  She had a fear there would be blows—­blows struck, of course, by Hine.  She knew the reason of the quarrel.  Her father was depriving Hine of his drug.  They passed up-stairs, however, and on the landing above she heard their doors close.  Then coming back to the window she made a sign to Chayne, slipped a cloak about her shoulders and stole quietly down the dark stairs to the door.  She unlocked the door gently and went out to her lover.  Upon the threshold she hesitated, chilled by a fear as to how he would greet her.  But he turned to her and in the moonlight she saw his face and read it.  There was no anger there.  She ran toward him.

“Oh, my dear,” she cried, in a low, trembling voice, and his arms enclosed her.  As she felt them hold her to him, and knew indeed that it was he, her lover, whose lips bent down to hers, there broke from her a long sigh of such relief and such great uplifting happiness as comes but seldom, perhaps no more than once, in the life of any man or woman.  Her voice sank to a whisper, and yet was very clear and, to the man who heard it, sweet as never music was.