They were ideal young people, and lived in a fairy farmhouse, in the
Eldorado of lovers. Everything went happily with them; no troublesome
grown-up people thwarted or annoyed them; they could be together as much
as they liked, and had never in their whole lives heard of such a thing
as impropriety. They had no enemies, nor so much as a single friend with
conscientious ideas of duty. In spite of all this they were remarkably
content with each other and with the world at large, and never did any
wrong, to speak of, from week's end to week's end. For the rest, they
had lived and played together ever since they could remember, had never
quarrelled except to provide a pretext for a reconciliation; and she had
always called him Eros, and he had always called her Psyche. They loved
each other with all their hearts, and were a living refutation of the
folly of those who would persuade us that pain and struggle are the
necessary discipline of human beings. To see these two was enough to
make one believe in the feasibility of setting up a new Garden of Eden
on a durable basis.
Notwithstanding their fanciful nicknames, and exceptional surroundings
and circumstances, Psyche and Eros were as thoroughly human in their
thoughts and emotions as if they had lived in the most commonplace of
country villages, and, although they had always been together, their
temperaments were as wide asunder as the poles. Psyche was imaginative,
dreamy, and sensitive to both mental and physical impressions; her
gentle brown eyes would fill with tears at the lightest touch of pity or
pathos, and the delicate bloom in her cheeks would fade and her girlish
figure droop after but an hour's illness. Yet she was entirely wholesome
and healthy both in mind and body, and though her voice was low and
soft, and her manner tender and appealing, she had a strength and
courage in the cause of right and truth such as a son of Anak might
have envied. Eros, on the other hand, took practical views of life, and
prided himself upon his solid common sense. Being now on the verge of
his twenty-first birthday, he affected a manly and dogmatic tone, as of
one who knew the world, and had arrived at the maturity of his judgment.
He was a red-cheeked, fair-haired, blue-eyed youth; sturdy, vigorous,
and jocund. Psyche loved him devotedly, and took every occasion to
persuade herself that he was the wisest as well as the dearest of
mankind. But she could not help suspecting sometimes that he was not
always quite amenable to reason, and would feel very guilty when the
conviction was occasionally forced upon her that she had taken a higher
view of this or that question than he had. On the whole, however, she
continued to maintain the sense of her own inferiority unimpaired, and
the more inferior she felt the better was she pleased.
Now it so happened that Eros would come of age on Christmas Day; and
as if the falling together of these two celebrations were not enough,
it had been decided to enhance their joyfulness by the addition of a
third--which was to be neither more nor less than the young people's
wedding! Here, surely, was bliss enough to be crowded into one short
twenty-four hours; and moreover, as Psyche observed, looking into her
lover's blue eyes with the frank shyness of her own brown ones, "What
Christmas present could we make to each other so appropriate as the
surrender of ourselves into each other's keeping?"
Yes, this was bliss enough even for ideal young people who lived in a
fairy farmhouse in the Eldorado of lovers. Nevertheless--if it will be
believed--even this was not all! A fourth cause of rejoicing, and one to
which Eros and Psyche looked forward with scarcely less delight than to
their own near union, was the promised advent of an old and intimate
friend of theirs, from whom they had been separated many years, but
whom they had never forgotten, or ceased to reverence and love. He had
been a young man when they were children, and they had looked upon him
then, and did now, as a dear elder brother. He had been their confidant
and adviser, the unweariable promoter and companion of their childish
merrymakings; a teller of splendid stories, a man ardent, gay,
sweet-tempered, wise. They had adored him as only children can adore
such a friend; all his sayings were to them oracular, and all his doings
superhuman. They fancied--with cause or without, it matters not--that
but for him they would not even have loved each other as they did. He
had brought out the best that was in them, and inspired that best to
become better. He had shown Psyche the manliness that was in Eros, and
had opened the eyes of Eros to the rare loveliness of Psyche. What did
they not owe to him? And since he went away he had become transfigured
in their memories.
Nine years had he been absent, a missionary among the heathen. But he
had also travelled much in civilised lands, and had seen all manner of
men and customs. Meantime he had written scores of delightful letters
to the young friends who loved him--letters which they read and re-read
scores of times, and thought more wonderful than his best stories in the
old days. Throughout this long period he had never given up the purpose
of seeing them again, and, if possible, to part no more. But still the
intended meeting had been put off; for Mortimer--such was his name--had
so much work to do in illuminating darkened souls, as to leave but a
distant hope of ever being able to indulge his own personal desires. At
length, however, the much-wished-for opportunity had presented itself,
and Mortimer was really coming. A few days before Christmas the young
people received a letter from him, telling the great news. This letter
was addressed to Psyche, who, as was her right, insisted upon having
it all to herself, and would not allow Eros to lay a finger on it.
She indeed vouchsafed to read it aloud to him, but tantalised him by
pretending to reserve certain passages to herself; because, as she
archly averred, they contained secrets for her private ear. Eros, as
her future lord and master, was half disposed to take umbrage at this
exclusion, and, had the letter been from any other being in the wide
world except Mortimer, there is no saying whether he might not actually
have been jealous! But since he was debarred from jealousy, he solaced
his discomfiture by putting on an air of complacent indifference,
stroking his eyebrows with his forefinger, and twisting the ends of an
almost imperceptible moustache. Psyche saw through his pretences, and
knew that he was annoyed, and she hated to annoy him. Why, then, did she
not hand him over the letter?
"I am on the point of setting sail," the letter ran, "and probably shall
arrive soon after you receive this. At all events, I am resolved to be
with you on Christmas Eve--your marriage eve! Death alone can forestall
me in that pleasure. I have said good-bye to my barbarians, who were
very sorry to lose me, and fear that I shall never return to them.
But I will; and I mean to bring you two--or you one, as you will be by
that time--with me. Yes, my good old people; for though your home is
Eldorado, mine is Paradise! Never was so beautiful a country--so tender
and serene a climate; such gentle-hearted and Christian barbarians! It
is a real Paradise, large enough and lovely enough to tempt all good
souls to migrate thither; and I come forth into the world to find
colonists, and bring them back with me. You will come, Psyche? and then
I shall make sure that Eros will follow you, sooner or later!
"And so you are waiting for me to marry you? Well, I believe you are
meant for each other, and I will do what I may to render your union
sacred and perpetual. Not that I think mere earthly union is always the
highest good for those who love. You know the old proverb; and there
are lovers whose hearts never quite realise one another's worth until
separation has taught it them. Do you love your old friend, who used to
go nutting, boating, snow-balling, and story-telling with you, any the
less because you haven't seen him for nine years? And would not you,
Eros, love Psyche a thousand times better were some chance to part you
from her awhile? You have never had her out of your sight, except when
your eyes were shut, and you don't half know how dear she is to you. It
would do you good were I to take her with me to my Paradise, and leave
you behind. Until you know what it is to be alone, and to see what you
most want beyond your immediate reach, you do not know everything. But
perhaps you will be content not to know?"
All this, and much more, did Psyche read to Eros. But at the end of
the letter there was a postscript, having glanced at which she looked
up towards her lover with a sudden apprehension in her eyes. His own
happened to be averted; and after an instant's hesitation, she folded
up the letter and said, "The rest is a secret!"
"All right!" returned Eros, yawning, and getting up; "no woman can be
entirely happy without a secret. Every man knows that; so I'll make you
a Christmas present of this one." And with that he sauntered off, his
hands in his pockets.
When he was gone Psyche unfolded the letter and read the postscript
again.
"I sail to-morrow," it said, "and am glad of it on more accounts than
one. It is a long overland journey from my home to this port, and I did
not know until I got here that a strange and fatal epidemic is wont to
make its appearance in the town about this time of year. During the last
few days it has broken out with great virulence, and people are dying
all around me. It kills in a few hours, and gives no warning, save a
passing chill. Well, I have no fears; I have passed unharmed through a
hundred pestilences. Still, if I should fail to sit by your fireside
next Christmas Eve, do not blame my will."
"Dear old Mort!" Psyche murmured, tears standing in her eyes. "What if
he had died, just as he was on his way to meet us after all these years!
I won't tell Eros; no, not even if it makes him angry. It's better he
should be angry than anxious. If anyone is to be anxious, let me be so.
Only if Mort doesn't come on Christmas Eve, then Eros must know. But he
will come, I know; and we shall all be happy."
It lacked scarcely three days to Christmas, and the house had to be
arranged and decorated for the festivities. It was a house of a thousand
to hold merrymakings in, and seemed really to take a genial interest
in the preparations that were going forward, and to give it all the
assistance that was in its power. Gray and weatherbeaten without, within
it was warm and home-like. Square oaken beams divided the low ceilings
of the rambling rooms; the deep fireplaces were dusky with the smoke
of ten thousand fires; the mellow old kitchen was a world in itself;
and the shadowy bed-chambers, with their great four-post bedsteads,
were just the place to play hide-and-seek in with ghosts and goblins.
Moreover, the best of feelings prevailed between the venerable mansion
and the natural and elemental surroundings amidst which it had so long
existed. The forest grouped itself artistically in the background; the
hillside sloped lovingly towards it on the right; at a little distance,
a clear-eyed pond smiled placid goodwill. And the rough spirits of Wind
and Rain, Snow and Frost, seemed to grow soft and tractable in their
sports with this time-honoured structure. "Merry Christmas!" they
whispered, wept, and glistened; and the house glowed back a hearty
response out of its diamond-paned lattices, and its clustered chimney
breathed forth smoky satisfaction.
Meanwhile Eros and Psyche laboured with all their hearts and hands,
and made the rooms green with ivy, holly, and laurel. In the parlour,
beneath the cluster of mistletoe that hung from the ceiling, was
arranged a little platform, with a daïs, and an altar-table covered with
white samite. It was here that the marriage ceremony was to take place.
By mid-day of Christmas Eve all the preparations were complete, and the
two lovers were sitting together in the deep bay-window, half hidden by
the ample curtains, and head-over-ears in lovers' talk. They were big
with the charming self-importance that belongs to young people in
their condition. Love burned for them in the centre of all things--it
illumined, warmed, and perfumed the whole world. For them the great
earth turned more smoothly on her axis, and moved in a fairer orbit; the
setting sun sank splendidly amidst his clouds for their sake; for their
delight yonder rosy-cheeked boy ploughed his whistling way through the
snow, and the sleigh-bells jingled so merrily from the distant road. If
only Mortimer were there, their happiness would be complete. And now he
must arrive every moment, so Eros kept saying, looking out of the window
with confident expectation; but Psyche scarcely replied. Her soft
little hands were cold and tremulous, and the corners of her sweet lips
drooped as she thought of the secret that harboured in her breast. It
was the first secret she had ever kept from Eros. Oh that it might
resolve itself happily, and not--not as she now began to dread! For
evening was coming on apace, and their friend had not yet come. He did
not come, though he had promised that Death only should forestall him.
As minute after minute slipped by, Psyche felt an almost irresistible
impulse to snatch forth the letter from her bosom, where she had hidden
it, and give it to her lover, that he might share and perhaps cheer her
suspense. But she forebore; she was strong enough to suffer alone, and
she felt, though hardly admitting it even to herself, that Eros was not
so strong in that kind of strength as she. He would laugh at a blow from
a fist such as would knock her senseless, but the blows of mental pain
and disappointment he was but ill-fitted to endure. Thus thinking, the
gentle Psyche crushed her trouble down, and even strove to forget it,
or believe it unfounded and imaginary, if so she might answer her lover
cheerfully, and in no way cast a shadow upon his Christmas Eve. But
still that strange coldness crept at intervals through her veins, making
her hands and her voice vibrate.
"Why, it's quite dark already!" exclaimed Eros at length. "Surely the
man means to be here by supper-time? I wonder how near he is now."
"There may have been a delay. The snow is very deep, you know, in some
places. Perhaps he won't find it possible to get here before to-morrow."
"Pooh! my dear little Psyche. You have forgotten the kind of man that
our Mort is. When he says he'll do a thing, he does it--if he's alive.
And in that very letter of yours, which you make such a mystery about,
but which I know perfectly well has nothing in it more than you read to
me--he says in that very letter that only Death would stand in the way
of his getting here to-night. And since he's a man in perfect health and
in the prime of life, I don't see what doubt there can be that he'll
keep his word. Only I do wish he'd told us the very hour, so that we
mightn't have had this suspense to bother us."
"Do you suppose we shall recognise his face when he comes?" asked
Psyche, after a little pause.
"Recognise him? Of course we shall!" returned Eros, positively, as
became his masculine superiority. "He'll be considerably changed, to be
sure; very likely he'll have a big black beard, and there'll be a few
lines across his forehead and round his eyes; but you mustn't mind
that. That sort of thing is bound to come on a man as he grows old. I'm
beginning to find that out myself; and Mort--why he's nearly forty by
this time!"
"How very wise he will be!" murmured Psyche, thoughtfully. "He was the
wisest person in the world before he went away; we shall be almost
afraid of him now."
"Well, as to that," said Eros, rubbing his downy upper lip and smiling,
"as to that, my dear Psyche, you must speak for yourself. Undoubtedly
Mort, the dear old fellow, has an immense deal of information, and
plenty of good sense to back it--which is more than always happens, I
can assure you. But when a man reaches his majority, and is on the point
of becoming a family man into the bargain--give me another, dear----what
was I going to say? Oh, well, I don't think _I_ shall be much afraid of
him, or of anybody else, that's all."
"Eros," whispered Psyche, feeling his strong young arm round her, and
his hand on hers, "should you be willing to have him take us back with
him to his Paradise, as he speaks of doing in the letter?"
"Well, my dear, that must depend a great deal upon circumstances. I
shall talk with Mort, and see what he has to say about his place. We
mustn't forget that we're very well situated as we are, and ought not to
move unless we're certain of bettering ourselves. The sort of society
he speaks of might not suit us, you know; we're not missionaries, and
don't care about barbarians as such. Mort, wise as he is, hasn't much
practical sense in some ways; not so much as--some men I know. He's
all for the loftiest and most ideal thing possible, without reflecting
whether or not it's inconvenient or uncomfortable too. In short, unless
his Paradise turns out to be a finer place than I think it will, I shall
feel inclined to keep hold on what we have. Besides, Psyche, any place
that you are in will be Paradise to me."
This compliment fairly merited the reward which Eros immediately claimed
and took for it, and which, by its potent effect upon both giver and
receiver, made speech seem impertinent for a time. Psyche sat gazing out
across the darkened snow with her tender brown eyes, and Eros looked
fondly on her, thinking that he loved her more than anything in the
world, and that life would be a blank without her. Surely, were she to
be taken from him, all his light and warmth would depart along with her.
That passage in Mortimer's letter which suggested that it might be well
sometimes for lovers to be parted had received his unqualified, though
unuttered, disapproval. Why should such a thing have been written?
Often, since Psyche had read it to him, Eros had resolved to dismiss the
idea from his mind; but such is the perversity of human minds that the
idea remained in spite of him. It made him feel now and then really
almost uneasy. The feeling, of course, was a morbid one; common sense
and wholesome reason forbade him to entertain it. Had he no more
confidence in Providence than to believe that it would take his Psyche
from him--his Psyche, who had grown up with him from infancy? Would
the good God be so cruel as to deprive him--and at this moment of all
others--of the companionship of her whom he so loved? But the misgiving
was unworthy of him. If he could not forget it, why then he would face
it, and face it down.
He bent towards Psyche, and discovered, by some method known to lovers,
that her eyes were wet with tears. When Love is in supreme command, the
soul is more tenderly alive to various influences, and hence more prone
to sadness of a certain kind, than at any other epoch of life. But Eros
had never understood Psyche's constitutional tendency to melancholy, and
just now he found it especially inopportune.
"What makes you unhappy?" he exclaimed. "Aren't we together, and haven't
we everything we want? And ought not this evening to be the most joyful
we ever yet spent?"
She leaned her head on his shoulder, hiding a sigh. "I was wondering,
dear," she said, "whether, when we go to the real Paradise, we shall
meet and know each other there as we do now. Do you believe we shall?"
There were few problems too profound for the plummet of Eros's common
sense to sound them. "Certainly we shall, my dear!" he answered
emphatically. "What put such a question into your head?"
"But shall you love me then? And shall I be your own wife there, Eros,
as I am to be here?"
"I really don't see the use, my dear little Psyche, of bothering our
heads with such gratuitous puzzles as that. There's quite enough to
attend to in this life, without trying to guess what may happen to us
in the next. For my part, it's enough to know that we love each other
in the body, and are to be husband and wife here in this farmhouse.
There'll be time enough to speculate about other states when we are in
them."
"Ah! but, Eros," said she, lifting her gentle face from his shoulder
and looking in his eyes, "suppose that I were to die to-night--this very
night, before our wedding! Could you be content to wait--could you rest
satisfied with the love that we have already loved in this world, and
with the knowledge that I was still loving you in Paradise, and would be
yours when you came there?"
Eros felt an impulse of impatience, which he repressed so far as not to
give it words; but he turned his face away. Those theories of delicate
tissue and transcendental application, which Psyche was given to
entertaining, irritated and silenced him. He loved Psyche, as an honest
man should love a woman--better than any other man ever loved a woman,
he thought; and what more could be expected of him? Besides, was it not
being ungrateful for the blessings in their possession to be borrowing
trouble from an improbable or unimaginable condition of things to come?
It was really too bad, thought Eros, and he turned his face away and
looked down the avenue, leaving Psyche unanswered.
It would have been quite dark now but for the whiteness of the snow. The
wind was rising, and the window-seat was getting chilly, and Psyche's
hand, which still lay in his own, was cold as ice, and she herself
seemed to shiver. The blinds must be closed, and they would go back to
the fire, for Mortimer might not come till midnight, for all they knew.
Stay!--what was that shadow moving this way up the avenue? Was it----
"Psyche! Psyche! look!" cried Eros, starting to his feet in joyous
excitement. "That must be--isn't it? Yes, it must be Mortimer--it is our
dear old Mort!"
"Oh Eros, I believe it is!" she answered, peering tremulously through
the darkness. "I can't see clearly; I had a vision of Death--that Death
was coming instead of him!"
"Death, indeed!" exclaimed Eros, with a laugh. "Let this be a lesson to
you, my dear, not to indulge in silly fancies again. But come on! We
must receive the dear fellow at the door."
He ran into the hall, Psyche following, and flung wide the heavy portal.
A gust of icy wind burst in, as though it had been lying in wait for
them on the threshold; and Psyche seemed to shrink away before it, and
Eros himself could scarce repress a shiver. But they pressed forward
again, and gazed out earnestly on the night. Yes, there could be no
doubt about it now. There came their friend--he who was most honoured
and trusted by them both, yet who, for nearly half their lives, had been
a stranger to them--there he came, striding swiftly towards them across
the snow. Only a dark, lofty shape he seemed; but the step, the bearing,
were unmistakable; they were Mortimer's own. By a simultaneous impulse
the two young lovers threw one arm round each other, and extended the
other to the advancing form. They could not cry out in welcome. Was it
their great joy that silenced them? for joy will sometimes bind the
faculties like awe. It was very dark, and neither had remembered to
bring a light. Almost before they were aware of it their strange friend
was standing close in front of them. How icy cold was the wind!
In moments of high feeling and excitement we do and say things as in a
dream, and afterwards hardly remember how we acted. So was it now with
Eros and Psyche. Did Mortimer take Eros's hand in a grasp as soft and
cold as snow? Did he kiss Psyche's forehead with lips that sent a happy
shudder to her heart? Did he speak to them in mellow, loving tones that
sounded at once strange and familiar? And did they answer him? Or was
it all a dream? Be that as it may, the spell soon passed off, and they
found themselves in clear possession of their several senses once more.
The long-expected guest had crossed their threshold, thrown aside his
heavy cloak, and removed the soft fur cap from his black hair, and,
Eros leading the way, the three friends had entered the warm, firelit
parlour.
"Sit down, all of us!" cried the host, rubbing his hands together.
"Draw up to the fire, and get warm, if you can. My stars, what a night!
Psyche, you look as if you'd been kissed by an icicle; and you, Mort,
you are as cold as death!"
They sat down round the broad hearth, the guest between the lovers; and
as the firelight flickered over them, so flickered and fell and rose
again their conversation. It often happens that, when we anticipate
saying most, we find the least to say; and somewhat thus did it fall
out in the present instance: or, perhaps, because in a meeting like
this, however thoroughly foreshadowed and anticipated, there is apt
to be a good deal of strangeness and unexpected diffidence to be
overcome,--perhaps it was for this reason that speech flowed but
intermittently for a while. Nevertheless, the lovers could feel
that they were every moment growing more and more into sympathy and
understanding with their new old friend, and doing so even more speedily
and completely than might have been possible through the uncertain
medium of words. He diffused around him, without effort, and apparently
without being conscious of it, a gentle and winning influence which was
fairly irresistible; so that by-and-by Psyche and Eros fancied that
never before had they known him so well as now. At the same time,
however, Psyche was inwardly aware of a great, yet indescribable, change
from that Mortimer who had bidden her farewell nine years before. The
principle, the genius of the man remained; but it existed now within the
sphere of such a mighty and grand personality as transcended all she had
previously known or conceived. It was as if some beneficent angel had
stooped from heaven to visit them, and, lest his celestial splendour
should overwhelm them, had assumed the guise and tone of that human
being in whom they felt the most affectionate trust. Through his manner
and aspect, and the low resounding melody of his utterance, she seemed
to catch glimpses of a power and wisdom almost superhuman; but blended
with a deep kindliness and charity, and a sublimity of nature that were
more human than humanity itself. She looked up to him, not in fear, but
with a loving, familiar kind of reverence; and would have confided to
him the choicest secrets of her heart.
The influence that he exercised was not of that kind which belongs to
superior age. There was in him all the fire and vigour of unquenchable
youth. His lofty figure was as alert and lightsome as it was majestic.
His manner was instinct with gentle sprightliness and playfulness, and
it was impossible not to feel cheery and hopeful in his company. The
curve of his lips, and ever and anon the sudden kindling in his eyes,
betrayed the fiery soul within; yet in everything that he said or did
were visible the traces of a serene and absolute self-control.
"We are glad you came in time," observed Eros at last. "We should never
have got married, I believe, if you had not been here to tie the knot."
"At least," added Psyche, in her clear, subdued voice, "you will make it
seem more beautiful and indissoluble, and give it a deeper significance,
than anyone else could have done. Yes, I am glad you came in time. Do
you know, Eros, I did not think Mortimer would come at all? That passage
in the letter that I did not read you spoke of a strange pestilence, and
immediately it came into my mind that Mortimer was dead. And even now,"
she continued, turning to the guest, and half-timidly meeting his
strong, unfathomable eyes with her own, "even now, though I see you here
between us, I cannot feel as if our Mortimer were in this world. Are you
really he? or a messenger come to tell us that he is gone?"
"I am alive--am I not?" answered the guest, with a particularly radiant
smile; "and if I am, then your Mortimer is also. As to my getting here
at the right time, I am always sure to do that; it would be a sad
business, indeed, if I were not. But are you both certain that you are
glad to have me here?"
"It would not be merry Christmas if you were not!" exclaimed Eros,
heartily.
"I am not always so well received," the other resumed. "I have been in
all sorts of places, and have met all sorts of people, and almost all
have called me abrupt and unceremonious. But then, not many know me for
what I really am."
"I think I know you," said Psyche, after a pause; "and I cannot imagine
myself so happy that your coming would not make me happier."
"You need not fear to know me, Psyche," returned the guest, with grave
gentleness; "and really I am not so unsympathetic as I must often seem.
But I have a task in the world which brings me less credit in the
performance than in the after result. Mankind, you know, Eros, are not
always wise and far-sighted enough to recognise at the moment what is
most for their good in the long run."
"Yes, I know that; but for my part I think I can tell what I need more
quickly and surely than most people. For instance--that Psyche must be
my wife, and that you must make her so."
"You rate my powers too high," rejoined their friend, smiling again.
"God only can make a man and woman one."
"Oh, I don't trouble myself with such fine-drawn distinctions. If you
pronounce the service over us, I will take the rest for granted. As I
was telling Psyche the other day, it's not worth while looking beyond
this world. If she is mine here, I'll risk our getting separated
hereafter."
"Hereafter may not be far off," said the guest, more gravely than he had
yet spoken. "You were best not to leave it out of the account."
"Death is my enemy--I can see no good in him!" declared Eros; "and I
will do the best I can to have my happiness in spite of him."
"He doesn't mean it!" exclaimed Psyche to their friend, in a low,
appealing tone. "He knows that only Death can make Love immortal."
"I must tell you," observed the guest, after a pause, "that I cannot
stay here long; I shall be gone to-night. What I came to do, therefore,
must be done soon."
"To-night!" cried Eros, in astonishment that was half incredulous.
Psyche said nothing, but hid her face in her hands and shivered a
little.
"I wished to make you happy--happier than you have ever been--if you
would let me," resumed the previous speaker. "Whoever has lofty beliefs
will have a lofty fate. If your idea of marriage is high enough, you
will not hesitate to come with me to my Paradise. How is it with you,
Eros?"
"Not yet," replied Eros, laughing and shaking his head. "It's too far
off, and the journey is too cold. If you are really determined to leave
us, you must go without me. Surely you can't expect me to be ready to
start at such short notice? No, no! I mean to stay by this comfortable
fireside for a long time yet, and so shall Psyche."
"Death has summoned men on shorter notice than this," said the other.
"Think again before you decide."
"I have decided; and I never change my mind," said Eros, obstinately.
And truly his preference was not an unnatural one. The old parlour
presented a most attractive aspect. The great log which had been burning
on the broad hearth had now fallen into glowing fragments, over which
small yellow and bluish flames danced intermittently. Everything was
warm, home-like, and familiar. Out of doors the stars shone crisp and
white, and the snow glistened pure as a maiden's soul. But ah! it was so
terribly cold; the beauty of the prospect could be enjoyed much better
from the genial vantage-ground of the hearthstone.
"If that is your decision, you must abide by it," said the guest, and
something in the words, and in the manner they were uttered, awed Eros
for the moment. Then, turning to Psyche, he continued: "But even your
Eros cannot choose for you. What is your preference? Are you, too,
willing to postpone Paradise for the fireside?"
Psyche was naturally more imaginative than most young girls, and
possibly there was something in the shadowy mystery of the hour, and in
her own physical and mental condition, that wrought upon her mood. A
creeping languor and a chill which the heat of the embers could not
counteract were gaining possession of her, and filling her brain with
weird fancies. Insensibly, he who sat beside her, and whose icy lips she
had felt upon her brow, had become clothed to her apprehension with an
unearthly, superhuman personality. No man was he, but an angel of tender
and mighty sway, stooping from heaven on the eve of Christmas, to hold
high argument with two mortal lovers on those questions which most
nearly concern their welfare. As she spoke her voice sounded faint and
ethereal, while her eyes sought to penetrate the shadow which had fallen
over the face of Eros.
"It is pleasant here," she said; "yet if, in Paradise, our union may be
eternal and secure, it is surely better to be there."
"You will meet Eros where we are going," returned the strange friend,
gently, taking her hand in his own. "If not this Eros whom you have
known here, then another and a worthier one than he."
"Oh, not another," whispered Psyche, entreatingly; "it must be this
Eros--my own dear Eros whom I have always loved. I have lived with him,
and our hearts are grown together. He is better and nobler than he
seems."
"It is not for me to decide," was the answer. "But do you speak to him,
Psyche. If he loves you, he will lay your words to heart."
Psyche rose from her chair, and, stepping somewhat feebly, crossed to
where Eros sat, and stood before him, her hands clasped. The room had
become more dusky, so that the three figures appeared rather like
shadows than beings of flesh and blood. For a moment or two there was
silence, and only Psyche's beseeching attitude seemed to speak.
"Eros," she said at length, "I feel that I must go--I must go with this
friend of ours. Do you know him, Eros? He is your friend as well as
mine. You might have gone with us; but that was not to be. We shall not
know marriage here, and we shall seem to be separated for a time. But
if your love for me has been as great as mine for you, the memory of it,
and the faith in what is to come, will heal the worst of the parting.
Oh, my love, say it shall be so!"
"You are crazy--both of you!" cried Eros, wrestling with the fear that
beset him, and striving to speak in an assured and masterful tone. "What
has Mortimer to do with you, Psyche? You are mine, and whoever pretends
to take you from me is my enemy!"
"Eros--Eros!" exclaimed the girl, with passionate earnestness, "it is
you who are crazy, my poor darling. Mortimer is dead; and the letter
which he wrote--the letter that I alone read and touched--had in it the
contagion of the pestilence. It was the message of my death; and now my
death has come."
"Death shall not have you!" cried Eros, starting to his feet; and such
was the vehemence of his rebellious anger that he felt ready to defy
even Omnipotence. "What have I done that I should lose you? I have loved
you truly and faithfully--why should not my love have its rightful
fulfilment? It shall not go for naught and end in dust and ashes! As
for this future you talk about, what is it? a misty possibility--an
indefinite surmise--nothing! I say it is unjust and tyrannical, and I
will not submit! Come to me, Psyche!"
He reached towards her through the dusk, but she seemed to falter
backwards from him, and when he would have followed, the tall form of
the mysterious guest rose between, and beneath that mighty and majestic
gaze the eyes of Eros wavered, though the rebellion in him was
unconquered still.
"You must yield her to me," said those deep, reverberating tones; "yet
it is not I that parts you. True lovers can be parted only through want
of faith. Upon yourself alone, therefore, does it depend whether she
leaves you for a time or for ever."
Eros pressed his hands to his head. Every good and evil impulse of his
soul was in deadly struggle for the mastery. Was his love greater than
Death? or had the past been a delusion? Was the future to be a blank? He
was but a man, with a man's weaknesses. He must rise to higher levels
through bitter trial, if at all; and except there were in him some
elements of generous nobleness, to turn his stubborn self-will at the
crisis of the conflict, the demon of mistrust would gain the victory.
Had he such allies?
"Speak to him again, Psyche," murmured the lofty presence, "you may yet
prevail."
"Eros," she said, throwing all the tenderness of her loving soul into
the word, "this is more than our friend--he is our brother. Love and
Death should glorify each other. If they are enemies, Death becomes
cruel and Love degraded. Yield me up now that you may possess me for
ever. Oh, quick, my love--quick!"
The struggling man uttered a cry, heartrending, full of anguish. He
was faint and giddy, and the world seemed to reel beneath his feet. He
stretched out his arms. "I love you, Psyche," he uttered. "Do not leave
me behind; let me go with you!"
He felt her hand again within his own. "You are my own Eros," she
whispered in his ear. "I shall not altogether leave you; you will see
me in dreams, and you will know that the Paradise I go to is near this
earthly home of ours. At last--perhaps not for a long time--but at last
we shall meet there. And now ... take me to our marriage-altar, and let
us say farewell there."
They came to the little samite-covered table, Psyche supported between
the other two. The lovers knelt down together, and the form of the
mysterious guest bended beneficently above them. Then Psyche slowly
drooped sideways, and Eros caught her in his arms. Yet no--she was not
there!
Still kneeling, he looked upwards through the window into the clear
winter night, and saw where two cloud-shapes seemed to flit hand in
hand across the starlit purple of the heavens. A strange peace entered
his lately tortured soul. The doubt in his love's immortality was gone,
and the struggle was ended.
"Take her, friend!" he cried, in a voice trembling with a deeper than
earthly happiness. "So great is my love, that not in this world, nor
with this mortal body, can I give it fit and full expression."
He was left alone in the old parlour, with the dead embers of the fire
upon the hearthstone. Christmas bells were ushering in what was to have
been his wedding-day; but, like their sweet notes, his mortal hopes had
been caught up to heaven, but were not lost there. It is many years
since then, yet every returning Christmas has found the same light of
peace in his face that first dawned there so long ago. No brooding
sullenness or failing faith has changed it into gloom.
But who was the mysterious guest, and why did he bear the likeness
of him whom, above all others, Eros and Psyche had loved? That is a
question which answers itself in all our lives. For when the time
comes--as come it must--that this majestic Presence is met face to face,
shall we not trust that the countenance which will, perhaps, seem awful,
may at least not be as that of a stranger whom we know not, and whose
heart is indifferent towards us? Would it not be pleasant, at that hour,
to recognise in him who must herald our entrance into a new society,
the well-known features of one whom our previous life had made our most
secure and faithful friend?