For seats like these beyond the
western main,
And shuddering still to face the distant deep,
Returned and wept, and still returned to weep.'
Oliver Goldsmith.
It is almost over, our Irish
holiday, so full of
delicious, fruitful
experiences; of pleasures we have made and shared, and of other
people's miseries and hardships we could not
relieve. Almost over!
Soon we shall be in Dublin, and then on to London to meet
Francesca's father; soon be deciding whether she will be married at
the house of their friend the American
ambassador, or in her own
country, where she has really had no home since the death of her
mother.
The
ceremony over, Mr. Monroe will start again for Cairo or
Constantinople, Stockholm or St. Petersburg; for he is of late years
a determined
wanderer, whose fatherly
affection is
chiefly shown in
liberal allowances, in pride of his daughter's beauty and many
conquests, in
conscientious letter-writing, and in
frequent calls
upon her between his long journeys. It is because of these paternal
predilections that we are so glad Francesca's heart has resisted all
the shot and shell directed against it from the batteries of a dozen
gay worldlings and yielded so quietly and so completely to Ronald
Macdonald's loyal and tender
affection.
At tea-time day before
yesterday, Salemina suggested that Francesca
and I find the heart of Aunt David's
labyrinth, the which she had
discovered in a less than ten minutes' search that morning, leaving
her Gaelic primer behind her that we might bring it back as a proof
of our success. You have heard in Pearla's Celtic fairy tale the
outcome of this little
expedition, and now know that Ronald
Macdonald and Himself planned the
joyful surprise for us, and by
means of Salemina's aid carried it out triumphantly.
Ronald crossing to Ireland from Glasgow, and Himself from Liverpool,
had met in Dublin, and travelled post-haste to the Shamrock Inn in
Devorgilla, where they communicated with Salemina and begged her
assistance in their plot.
I was looking forward to my husband's
arrival within a week, but
Ronald had said not a word of his intended visit; so that Salemina
was
properlynervous lest some one of us should
collapse out of
sheer joy at the
unexpected meeting.
I have been both quietly and wildly happy many times in my life, but
I think
yesterday was the most perfect day in all my chain of years.
Not that in this long
separation I have been dull, or sad, or
lonely. How could I be? Dull, with two dear, bright, sunny letters
every week, letters throbbing with manly
tenderness, letters
breathing the sure,
steadfast, protecting care that a strong man
gives to the woman he has chosen. Sad, with my heart brimming over
with sweet memories and sweeter prophecies, and all its tiny
crevices so filled with love that
discontent can find no entrance
there! Lonely, when the
vision of the
beloved is so poignantly real
in
absence that his
bodily presence adds only a final touch to joy!
Dull, or sad, when in these soft days of spring and early summer I
have harboured a new feeling of
companionship and oneness with
Nature, a fresh joy in all her
bounteousresource and plenitude of
life, a renewed sense of kinship with her
mysterious awakenings!
The
heavenly greenness and promise of the outer world seem but a
reflection of the hopes and dreams that irradiate my own inner
consciousness.
My art,
dearly as I loved it,
dearly as I love it still, never gave
me these strange,
unspeakable joys with their
delicatemargin of
pain. Where are my ambitions, my
visions of
lonely triumphs, my
imperative need of self-expression, my ennobling glimpses of the
unattainable, my
companionship with the shadows in which an artist's
life is so rich? Are they vanished
altogether? I think not; only
changed in the twinkling of an eye, merged in something higher
still, carried over, linked on, transformed, transmuted, by Love the
alchemist, who, not content with joys already bestowed, whispers
secret promises of raptures yet to come.
The green isle looked its fairest for our
wanderers. Just as a