In that moment, too, the idea of her love in all its
divineness burst upon him. Here was a heart capable of a great tragic
love like the loves of old he read of and whimpered for in sonnets, and
what had he offered in exchange? A poor, philosophical compromise,
compounded of pessimism and desire, in which a man should have all to
gain and nothing to lose, for
'The light, light love he has wings to fly
At suspicion of a bond.'
'I would I did love her,' his heart was crying as he went away. 'Could I
love her?' was his next thought. 'Do I love her?'--but that is a
question that always needs longer than one day to answer.
Already he was as much in love with her as most men when they take unto
themselves wives. She was desirable--he had pleasure in her presence. He
had that half of love which commonly passes for all--the passion; but he
lacked the additional incentives which nerve the common man to face that
fear which seems well-nigh as universal as the fear of death, I mean the
fear of marriage--life's two fears: that is, he had no desire to
increase his worldly possessions by annexing a dowry, or ambition of
settling down and procuring a wife as part of his establishment. After
all, how full of bachelors the world would be if it were not for these
motives: for the one other motive to a true marriage, the other half of
love, however one names it, is it not a four-leaved clover indeed?
Narcissus was happily poor enough to be above those motives, even had
Hesper been anything but poor too; and if he was to marry her, it would
be because he was capable of loving her with that perfect love which, of
course, has alone right to the sacred name, that which cannot take all
and give nought, but which rather holds as watchword that _to love is
better than to be loved_.
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