III. THE PHILOSOPHY OF LOVE
“Is there such a thing as Love?” asked Miranda.
Overhead the larks sung, about her the blackbirds carolled; finch called to finch in the hedgerows. Wrinkled with her thoughts, Miranda walked down the slope into the field of young green corn, and, pausing on the verge of the wheat, looked across the valley.
“Is there such a thing as Love?” she asked.
She shaded her eyes to the East. The morning still lay like a golden shroud upon the horizon, and through that veil she could not pierce. She wondered what reached beyond that remote, mysterious brightness. If the sun would but disperse those aureoles of the East, she would, perhaps, see clearly what she guessed at vaguely. The valley was her own, informed and animated by her own fancy, free to her wandering feet, charged full of sweet beatitudes, smiling with flowers, and lovely with the serene possession of life and happiness. But Miranda had, somehow, a dim sense of confinement within those golden mists. Her life was beautiful and fortunate, but the walls of the world came so close upon her. She wanted the key of the wicket to pass out upon the mountains. Was there nothing beyond the birds and the flowers and the waving fields of wheat? Something troubled Miranda!
There was none to guide her. What passed beyond the mists and what fell across the mountains? She was sure she should know some day, but she wanted to know now. So many mysteries flitted through Miranda’s mind.
“If there is no Love,” said Miranda, “what is ringing at my heart? Is it Love, is it Death, or is it merely the desire and delight of life? Oh, for an interpreter!” she sighed.
In the little pathway through the corn a bird lay dead. Miranda stooped and smoothed its ruffled feathers.
“Is it Pity?” she asked. “Perhaps it is Pity,” she said.
She could not dissever her emotions; they ran together in confusion. The one faded into the other. How fast the blood fled through Miranda’s body! How full was Miranda’s soul!
“He must be very tender,” thought Miranda, stroking the poor dead creature. “He must be very kind and true. How shall I know him? What does it mean?”
The wind sang through the wheat, and seemed to bear snatches from over the mountains to her ears. They stirred her strangely. She threw her arms up in despair.
“Oh, I shall never love!” sighed Miranda, “for love is all a figment.”
“So young a maid, and yet so harsh a creed,” said a voice behind her.
Miranda started, and hung her head for shame.
“If I have trespassed upon your thoughts,” said the voice, “it was through the inadvertence of an impulse. Forgive me. I should have passed and left you to your trouble.”
“I am in no trouble,” said Miranda, glancing shyly at the stranger. “I was but wondering.”
“The most of our life is wonder, and the rest regret,” said he.
“Mine is all wonder, Sir,” she answered.
He nodded his head kindly.
“Yes,” he sighed. “The garden still encloses you. You are not yet upon the road. And the garden is full of flowers, and the road winds through hot and arid tracts to death.”
Miranda looked at him timidly, and he was watching the valley with a gentle smile. Hope danced through Miranda’s heart. Was this then her interpreter, who would put a meaning upon her unknown wonders and solve the mysteries that beset her?
“Yet those in the garden may dream of the road,” she said; “and I am perplexed with many things.”
“This Love,” he answered, smiling, “most of all.”
Miranda blushed. “’Tis true,” she murmured.
“Love, poor child,” said the stranger, “is a tyrannous enemy, but a decent friend. It were better in chains than above an altar.”
“Is it not good?” she asked in surprise.
He leaned upon the gate. “It is easily mistook,” he said slowly. “Who am I to convince you? But my years in the world have taught me to regard it at the best as a very tender tie of friendship.”
“But, oh!” says Miranda.
“Child,” said he, “you will cry your heart out for it, and once it is gained will cry out your heart because of it. Believe me, Love is a steady flame, and neither leaps nor splutters.”
“How may one tell it?” whispered Miranda.
“Shall one say by the voice?” he answered. “Shall one speak of the touch, or the look? Maybe, a little breathlessness will mark it.”
“I have that now,” says she.
“Well, well,” he replied; “but ‘tis of a long growth and very gentle.”
“And may not one love at sight?” asked Miranda.
He laughed. “My child, ‘twould be the veriest folly and bitterly repented. Never yet came true love but by slow years of wont. A face—a face is a shadow that passes. Eyes—eyes flicker and fade. Lips—lips are for food and laughter. The hair decays; the body dwindles and withers; the comely limbs grow shrunken and hollow. If you would hold by these, my dear, you would put your trust in the flying hour.”
Miranda’s eyes opened large and wide. She stared at him. Her underlip quivered. She gave a little sob, and at the sound he turned to her. For the first time her face came full into the sunlight, and her eyes met his. He took her hand; she hid her face.
“Why, child——” said he.
“Is it so?” she whispered, “and is it really so? Will all this come to me?”
He looked in her eyes again, and drew a sharp breath.
“Dear,” he answered, “it is the way of mortal clay.”
Miranda sighed.
“But, ah!” he cried, “surely the gods will spare such sweetness till the end.”
He held her hand still. She wondered.
“And must one wait so long?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I believe,” said he, fiercely, “that upon occasion Love may come at sight.”
“Why,” said she, opening her eyes in wonder, “a little ago it was the veriest folly!”
“Ah, dear,” he answered, “forgive me. I was blind, and saw not. Philosophy and I rolled into the ditch.” Miranda stared at him. He smiled and sighed. “But when it comes,” said he, “it comes indeed. The skies open, the flowers blow sweetly, every shred of green corn is fragrant. Love, believe me, is a very comfortable possession.”
“Is it not gentle?” asked Miranda.
“Ah, so gentle!” he replied. “It wraps you round like a soft fur; it soothes you; you may sit and dine and sleep with easy thoughts if Love but guard you. Love is like a good wine, that mellows the heart and quickens the understanding.”
He moved a little closer to her.
“Were one to love like this,” said Miranda, “would the heart be then at rest? Would it throb less loudly in one’s side? Would such a love fulfil the most exigent desires of human nature? What part would so smooth a sentiment fill in one’s life?”
“Passion,” he answered, “is the bubble that we blow in youth. It is the creature of our own imagination, fails with our pulse, and expires upon the indrawing of a breath. How many have I seen wrecked upon passion, incredulous that it would be gone with the fall of the sun or the waking of the birds! Love, child, is no passion, but the sweetest of contentments. Served in a daily fare, it will preserve Peace and Health and Wisdom. What would you have beyond these? For, behold! the greatest of all is Peace.”
“Peace!” sighed Miranda.
He went towards her. “Ah, sweet,” he murmured, “Peace should be our fortune should we go through life together. Come, place your hand in mine, and we will dispel these rebel wildings from your heart. Look round and see the spring. All things keep serene and quiet holiday. Pluck out distrust; forget these treacherous longings! A happy childhood shall surely preface a comfortable career of ease.”
Miranda hesitated; her pretty brows were puckered with doubt. At his bidding she looked around. Nature smiled at her. The face of the world shone with gaiety. Somewhere in the elms a throstle sang of Love and mystery. She turned and gazed into the stranger’s face, and his kindly eyes seemed dull and old. Spring and the sunshine and the song of birds lay not therein. She shook her head.
“I want not comfortable ease,” she answered sadly; “I would not take it at so great a sacrifice. See, there are other things in Nature save peace. What of this dead bird, callow from the nest? Is it nought but peace I hear in yonder singing in the trees? Hark! what secret is the young corn breathing to itself? Nay, what is even this poor ignorant heart of mine faltering within me? All around I see witnesses to some greater glory than this ease of which you speak. The strokes of my pulse beat folly, you will say. Well, I will pursue their folly until wisdom comes. Do not let me from my own. I can but follow where myself am leader.”
“Nay,” he said; “follow rather where I lead—I who have years of wisdom. You are very sweet to me. Your eyes are soft and beautiful.”
“Eyes flicker and fade,” said Miranda with a smile.
“Your form is young and lissom.”
“The body dwindles, “quoth she, pouting.
“Your lips——” he began.
“Are for food and laughter,” laughed Miranda. “I pray you will not hold by these, else will you put your trust in the flying hour.”
“You mock me,” said he sadly.
“Nay,” she replied; “I give you back the echo of your own philosophy. Is it not true? Yourself have seen it. They shrink, they wither, they fade, they decay—oh, it were wanton vanity to admire them! Sir, you have a very wise head, and will do well not to go back upon its counsels. Nay, you shall have your comfort, and you shall take it at the lips of any of a hundred maids. There is no choice for you. Why, no mysteries may trouble you. You have but a straight course to saunter by, without so much as blinking at the sun. Marry your maid then, and take your comfort in God’s name. And in my mind’s eye I shall see you lolling in your purple chair, and sucking in the comfort of your admirable room, smoking your comfortable pipe, and directing comfortable glances at the flight of rooks outside your window. And beside you one, I shall see, to tender anticipations to your wants, plump and brown and gentle, the mother of your sturdy children and the custodian of your ease. Oh, you shall have a comfortable life, I do assure you.”
“That,” he said tenderly, “is how I would paint the picture for myself and—you. Come, think upon it. What better prospect than this home you have upheld to mockery? Indeed, what you have framed in derision shall surely come to be your heart’s desire. Forego your yearnings: they are idle dreams. Why, then, dream them at night if you will, so be you are complacently mine by day. I exact not much, but a warm affection and a tender friendship.”
“Oh, we may be friends! we may be friends!” cried Miranda. “I will be a dozen friends to you a day. I love the friendliness of friends, as I love the light and warmth of the sun. I will dance with you, if you be not too staid; I will sing with you, if you have but the voice; I will read my books in tears with you, if you can weep. But then you shall march home to your comfortable wife, embrace her serenely, and, free from the distractions of your friend’s emotions, serenely take comfort in her serene comfortableness.”
“Ah!” he cried.
“But as for me,” she went on, with an imperious gesture of her hand, “I like not comfort. I can buy a rushlight for a farthing, bread for a penny, and the whole world for sixpence. I would think shame to sell the mysteries of life for the petty possession of a bland prosperity.”
Without a word, he turned on his heel and went his way, and Miranda, following him with her eyes, smiled to herself and her heart. She was flushed and beautiful; her bosom quickened with excitement, and to the door of her heart the hand came clutching, clutching at the latch.