I. THE POPINJAY
Miranda came forth into the garden and looked about her. The sun shone through deeps of blue, the spring flowers were blowing, the young breezes of the morning fluttered her bright hair. Her white gown trembled and wavered. In her large eyes the light gleamed as on the surface of deep pools. Merrily sang the birds as they flitted among the trees. Her gaze wandered abroad, from the garden, fresh with its early dews, to the rolling hills and distant valleys, shrouded in the golden haze of the morning. She smiled at the landscape. Something knocked at Miranda’s heart. Miranda felt the world was full of charm; it held something in keeping for her, something unknown and wonderful and fair. Of what does a young maid dream in the fresh morning? Soft and blooming from her sleep, she surveyed the world and its bountiful contents. All things lovely came to lie at Miranda’s feet. She could have danced for gaiety; she could have sung for happiness. What enchanting avenues of pleasure opened out before her eyes! Something was waiting for her; she wondered what. Its nature and its quality evaded her; but she had a vague vision of a great glory near by, ready for her discovery. Her pulse beat fast. Something mysterious was creeping into her heart. She was but a child in years. How could she know? Within the phantasmagoria of her dreams she wandered in innocence. The air that breathed about her forehead she smiled at for pleasure; the sun that shone so warmly on her cheeks she laughed at for sheer delight; the flowers that nodded on their stalks she kissed for very happiness. Youth, spring, and loveliness blossomed in Miranda’s heart.
Miranda looked down the pathway and wondered. She could not rest within doors. The mystery in her heart turned her steps away into the garden and the world, to seek, to seek—she wondered what. Her soul went out among the flowers and rejoiced, and then crept back and nestled in its home, marvelling. She yearned for something other than the flowers and the sunshine, something in harmony with them. Would she find it at the end of the pathway, or in the wide world? She tripped down the steps and set forth.
At the corner of the garden, where the stile led into the lane, Miranda paused. A pretty youth peeped over the hedge and gazed upon her. Before the admiration in his glance Miranda’s eyes fell. She fingered the daffodils at her breast until he should be gone, but when she looked up again he was still there. Miranda stamped her little foot.
“When you have stared your fill, Sir,” said she, “perhaps I shall have leave to pass.”
He plucked off his hat and asked her pardon, and his hair hung in curls.
“You shall have all the liberty I can give you, fair maid,” said he, “if I, too, may pass with you.”
“But why?” asked Miranda, smoothing her flowers, with downcast eyes.
He smiled a pretty smile. “Oh,” says he, “but you know you are beautiful. The pretty must always have full knowledge of their own prettiness.” And he preened his bare head with an elegant white hand and smiled to himself.
Miranda looked up. He was quite the most ravishing creature she had seen. She wondered. Miranda looked down, and the scent of the garden passed into her soul. He put out his hand to help her over the stile, but she kept her eyelids lowered.
“Will you not trust me?” he lisped. She shook her head, and mounted the first stage.
“Of what age?” he asked sweetly. She climbed the steps one by one.
“Eighteen,” she answered shyly.
“Jump,” he cried, “and I will catch you.”
He opened his arms; she looked and hesitated. She put her face aside and crept down the steps demurely.
“Cruel!” he murmured, using his soft eyes upon her. He sighed and turned away. Miranda surveyed the valley mistily.
“’Tis a sweet age for a maid,” said he at length.
Miranda laughed. She clapped her hands in the glory of the springtide.
“And mine own can match it,” he went on. “Betwixt yours and mine are but a summer or two.”
“’Tis a fine age for a man,” says Miranda, slyly.
He turned swiftly and took her hand. Miranda’s heart stopped dead.
“Think you so, sweet?” he asked softly. “I have long looked for such a maid as you. We should make a pretty pair.”
Miranda’s heart beat slowly.
“What does it mean?” said Miranda.
“It means,” said he, “my sweet, that the world is ours before us, that time and space are browbeat out of reckoning, that life is love and love is life, my darling.”
“What is love?” asked Miranda.
“Look in my face,” he said, “and, faith, sweetheart, you shall see it there. It is engraven on my heart for you; it is imprinted in my eyes. Every negotiation of this body is but for you. Come, let me gaze into your soul, and see what you have sight of in this soul of mine.”
“I see it not,” said Miranda.
He seized her fingers. “Let me kiss your hand,” said he.
“No, no!” said Miranda.
“Your lips!” he cried.
“Hush! hush!” said Miranda.
Her face blew red; she snatched her hand away, and turned aside. With a light step, he followed after, pleading in her ears.
“You love me, dear; I know you love me,” he whispered. It is but your innocence that keeps you from the knowledge. Have I not seen the light in other eyes, and shall I not judge? Faith, dear, hundreds have pined for these blue eyes of mine.”
Miranda’s heart went to and fro about its business.
“You are mistaken,” said she, sedately; “the light in my eyes, if so there be a light, is the dancing of the sun. As for this love, I know it not. And you,” she cried, looking upon him with a little scorn, “whatever you may see in your own, as you bow and caper before your mirror, pray pause and question if it be not merely the reflection of a very precious vanity, the admiration of your own fine person. You are a pretty fellow,” says she, surveying him.
He smirked and bowed.
“I vowed you would see it soon,” said he, complacently.
“But for my own taste,” quoth Miranda, cocking her head upon one side, “you smack overmuch of the toilet-table. You are composed too daintily as a waxen image; you are prepared too fragrantly as with my lady’s powder. You are too tricked with all the fashions at your service.”
“Madame,” says he in astonishment, “your tongue is awry to-day. It is some bitterness, surely, makes you so reckless of your words.”
“Nay,” said Miranda, soberly; “but I am cool enough. I but survey you as you are in all your maiden vanity. You offer me love, and what do I that know not the foolish term make out this love to be? Why, forsooth, yourself is all it comes to; yourself, or as much as goes to make yourself, of all the tricks and elegances of the hour. I would take no love at such an estimate. It comes with the hour, and with the hour it goes. Sir, ‘tis not worth the time of a ‘pish’ or a ‘tush.’”
“You have a vile temper,” he rejoined, crossly; “I have never met a maid with such a shrewish wit as yours—no, not among the thousands that have loved me. What have I done to offend you? But I know the way of a maid’s tongue,” he said, wagging his head; “if she be crossed even by the slipping of an epithet, she will straightway fall into a very tempest of rage and deny the dearest idol of her heart. Lord, how perverse she will be! Come, sweet my love, and tell me how I have offended, for it is not in reason but you must love me.”
“Love you!” cried Miranda, and laughed to the sky. She looked him up and down. “I like not your nose,” quoth she, “’tis too straight for my taste—’tis wonderful how monotonous a nose maybe. And your eyes,” she exclaimed, “Heavens! of what pale China blue, as the eyes of an idol grinning on his thousand worshippers! There is less colour in a kind of blue I know than in any honest puddle of mud. And, oh! my pretty sir, to find the petulance of a maid pouting on the lips of a youth! ‘Tis so unseemly. Those curling locks, too, I cannot abide. On my soul, they are more lady-like and bewitching than mine own, and no woman would forgive such an affront upon her vanity. Love you, sweet sir! I love not a mannikin, designed by Mother Nature as fit company for the lapdog on my lady’s knee. Give me a man,” says Miranda, blazing into anger; “give me a man with a soul and body fashioned for manhood.”
He stamped his foot, and made as though to seize her by the wrist, but stopped.
“Pooh!” he sneered, as he turned away; “’tis a comfort fair women fade so fast.”