The time came when the locks, from crown to tip, were all chestnut--butwhen it came I would have given the world for them to be gold again;for Elizabeth had said a curious thing when she had given me herpromise.
"All right, dear," she had said, "but something tells me that when theyare all brown again our happiness will be at an end."
"How long will that take?" I had said, trying to be gay, though aninvoluntary shudder had gone through me, less at her words than becauseof the strange conviction of her manner.
"About two years,--perhaps a little more," she said, answering me quiteseriously, as she gravely measured the shining tresses, half her body'slength, with her eye.
CHAPTER III
THE GOLDEN GIRL
One fresh and sunny morning, some months after this night, Elizabethand I stood before the simple altar of a little country church, for thenews had come to us that her husband was dead, and thus we were free tobelong to each other before all the world. The exquisite stillness inthe cool old church was as the peace in our hearts, and the ripplingsound of the sunlit leaves outside seemed like the very murmur of thestream of life down which we dreamed of gliding together from that hour.
It was one of those moments which sometimes come and go without anyapparent cause, when life suddenly takes a mystical aspect ofcompleteness, all its discords are harmonised by some unseen hand ofthe spirit, and all its imperfections fall away. The lover of beautyand the lover of God alike know these strange moments, but none knowthem with such a mighty satisfaction as a man and a woman who love asloved Elizabeth and I.
Love for ever completes the world, for it is no future of higherachievement, no expectation of greater joy. It lives for ever in apresent made perfect by itself. Love can dream of no greaterblessedness than itself, of no heaven but its own. God himself couldhave added no touch of happiness to our happy hearts that grave andsunny morning. You philosophers who go searching for the meaning oflife, thinkers reading so sadly, and let us hope so wrongly, the riddleof the world--life has but one meaning, the riddle but oneanswer--which is Love. To love is to put yourself in harmony with thespheral music of creation, to stand in the centre of the universe, andsee it good and whole as it appears in the eye of God.
Even Death himself, the great and terrible King of kings, though he maybreak the heart of love with agonies and anguish and slow tortures ofseparation, may break not his faith. No one that has loved will dreameven death too terrible a price to pay for the revelation of love. Forthat revelation once made can never be recalled. As a little sprig oflavender will perfume a queen's wardrobe, so will a short year of lovekeep sweet a long life. And love's best gifts death can never takeaway. Nay, indeed, death does not so much rob as enrich the gifts oflove. The dead face that was fair grows fairer each spring, sweetmemories grow more sweet, what was silver is now gold, and as years goby, the very death of love becomes its immortality.
I think I shall never hear Elizabeth's voice again, never look into hereyes, never kiss her dear lips--but Elizabeth is still mine, and I amhers, as in that morning when we kissed in that little chancel amid theflickering light, and passed out into the sun and down the lanes, toour little home among the meadow-sweet.
She is still as real to me as the stars,--and, alas, as far away! Ithink no thought that does not fly to her, I have no joys I do notshare with her, I tell her when the spring is here, and we sit beneaththe moon and listen to the nightjar together. Sometimes we are merrytogether as in the old time, and our laughter makes nightfaring folk tocross themselves; my work, my dreams, my loves, are all hers, and myvery sins are sinned for her sake.
Two years did Elizabeth and I know the love that passeth allunderstanding, and day by day the chestnut upon her head was more andthe gold less, till the day came that she had prophesied, and with theday a little child, whose hair had stolen all her mother's gold, as herheart had drained away her mother's life.
Ah! reader, may it be long before you kneel at the bedside of her youlove best in the world, and know that of all your love is left but ahundred heart-beats, while opposite sits Death, watch in hand, andfingers upon her wrist.
"Husband," whispered Elizabeth, as we looked at each other for the lasttime, "let her be your little golden girl..."
And then a strange sweetness stole over her face, and the dream ofElizabeth's life was ended.
As I write I hear in the still house the running of little feet, afairy patter sweet and terrible to the heart.
Little feet, little feet--perhaps if I follow you I shall find againour mother that is lost. Perhaps Elizabeth left you with me that Ishould not miss the way.
Tout par soullas.
The Quest of the Golden Girl: A Romance Page 16