“Of Paradys ne can not I speken propurly; for I was not there.”—SIR
JOHN MAUNDEVILLE.
There came a day that was different from all other days. Its light, I
think, will go shining down through all the days of my life, to the very
end.
It was early spring. We were walking, Janet and the Lad and I, along the
river, where it winds and curves among meadows, inland from the sea. The
first spring green had rippled over the country, and along the
water-ways, tiny leaves shivered on the silver beeches and the tall
young poplar trees.
Janet chattered and laughed like a child. “Isn’t it hard to believe,”
she said, shading her radiant face with her hands, “that one can be so
much alive, and that—”
“That what?” I questioned.
“That the very air can be made to shine around us in this way,” she
answered softly.
We were to walk to Sunset Hill, and to climb to its very top. But we
loitered, and the river loitered too. It ran so lazily between its banks
that we could hardly tell which way the current set.
I do not remember that we talked much. We toiled along in the warm air,
with our wraps growing warm at every step, and we picked the violets and
the wind-flowers near our path. At the foot of the hill my courage
failed. I seated myself on a great flat rock, and announced my intention
to stay there.
My two young friends remonstrated. They would wait until I was rested,
and would help me all the way. But I could not and would not go, for I
wished to be alone.
So I sent them off together, up the hill. They had taken off their hats,
and were walking bare-headed. The wind was blowing the Lad’s dark hair
away from his forehead, and was fluttering in the folds of Janet’s gown.
Looking across the rolling country I rested as I had not rested for
months. There were hints of blossom among the cool, pale greens of grass
and trees. I forgot my winter and my suffering poor, as the earth had
forgotten its past in the glory of another spring.
All the knowledge of sin and of unholiness that the winter had brought
me was annulled by the picture before me, of Janet and the Lad climbing
bravely up the hill. How young and strong, how happy they were! What
promise and hope lay in love like that!
For I knew, I know not how, that the crisis had come. I was sure that at
last the unsurmountable obstacle had given way. I shut my eyes to let
the wind blow on my eyelids. I was content. I wondered almost that the
lovers did not envy me, for I shared the lives of both; both sides of
the story were mine.
Just once I opened my eyes and looked. The pilgrims were standing at the
end of the long green slope, against the pale blue sky. I saw the Lad
take both the girl’s hands in his own, and then I turned my head. I had
no right to watch them, even from outside the gates, beyond the drawn
sword.
As I waited, I thought of the fitness of the scene. The passion and the
purity of that love were one with the encompassing life of spring.
I was alone quite a long time, I think. The air grew cooler and more
cool. The low, sweet piping of frogs came to me from the near river and
the far-off pools. I was alone, dreaming my dreams.
The sunshine grew fainter as the afternoon wore on. It was full of a
spring haze that was woven, half of light, and half of green, caught
from new leaves. Presently I saw that only the tops of the willows and
the young elms were in the sunlight. The day was almost done.
When the lovers came down from the hill-top, their faces were shining.
We went home silently along the foot-path in the grass on the river
bank.