IV

Felise listened to the larks as they rose and sang⁠—now one, now two, now six or seven at once. They did not soar to a great height; but, starting from a field of clover beneath, came up a little above the level where she sat, and sang like a chorus before her. She listened, and in her heart silently asked the same as they did aloud. Over their nests and their beloved ones they uttered their verses, in melody requiring of the sun and of the earth happiness for these, and for themselves permission to live.

Chanting their welcome to the sun, they breathlessly poured out a prayer demanding, in a thousand trills, that the joy of day and life might descend upon their homes. They sank to the clover, but speedily came up again, restless in their gladness, eager to acknowledge the benefit of day, eager to secure fulfilment of their hopes for their young, fearful lest they had not expressed themselves sufficiently, lest they had seemed ungrateful.

Felise asked in her heart the same as they did. Her overflowing heart asked happiness for the image that now filled it; for herself only that she might contribute to his happiness⁠—that she might sacrifice herself⁠—that she might lay down her life for him.

Of old, old time the classic women in the “Violet Land” of Greece went out to the sunrise, and, singing to Apollo, the sun, prayed that their hearts might be satisfied, and their homes secured; by the fountain they asked of the water that the highest aspirations of their souls might be fulfilled; of the earth they asked an abundance for those whom they loved.

No more the hymn is heard to the sun; no more the stream murmurs in an undertone to the chorus of human hopes; no more the earth sees its wheat and its flowers taken from it to be presented to it again upon the altar in token of gratitude and prayer.

But still the larks, as then, and still the thrushes, the fleeting swallows, and the doves, address themselves to sun, and earth, and stream, and heaven. Their songs vary not, their creed does not change, their prayer goes forth to the same old gods.

Have our hopes and hearts changed in the centuries? No; not one whit.

Felise asked the same as many a deep-breasted maiden in the days of Apollo and Aphrodite. Only her heart was pure, and uncontaminated even by any sensuous myth.

The larks sang out of the fullness of their hearts; they were not conscious that they prayed, though in truth they did. Her heart spoke without volition, she was not aware she was praying. With all her being she demanded that joy might reach her beloved, that she might lie like the dust at his feet, in her sacrifice her triumph.

Came the sun in all his glory, and the wind from the sea; the deep azure sky was over her, the woods and the green wheat below. The hills were all her own; there was no one else to claim them in the morning. She alone looked at the sky, and it was hers. Could she have done so, she would have given the wide earth and all its fruits to her beloved.

The richness of the corn in the plain, and of the luxuriant grasses in the meadow; the ancient oaks and the thousand elms; the hedges hung with honeysuckle, and where the roses were coming; the sweet waters, and the flowers that stood by them; all that grew afar to the horizon. Nor was that enough. The dim blue sea yonder, the bright blue heavens, the glowing light; she would have given him all for his delight, as a goddess of old time might have taken a mortal in her chariot through the ether.

She was leaning on her arm, reclining on the sward, and the throbs of her heart vibrated through her arm to the earth. Quickened by the violence of her run up the hill it beat rapidly, causing her arm to tremble slightly. It was meet that so noble a heart should rest upon the boundless earth. There the rudeness of its beat diminished, and the vehemence of the vibration subsided.

But not so the vehemence of the passion within. The glowing light and pleasant air, the broad green wheat under, all the blue above, the beauty of the world but fed the flame. So much the more she entered into the loveliness of the day, so much the more grew the desire which was her life.

She had gone out at the dawn that she might grasp it from the sun at his rising, that she might steal from the dewy grass and the fresh leaves, and seize her love from the purple sky. The sun had risen and the morning was opening into day, but she was insatiate, still she wished for more. She had fed herself with the light, and dew, and loveliness of the sunny morn, yet her hunger grew with all she fed on. There was no rest for her in the sunlight, on all the wide earth.

If in the time to come she should have her dream, would even then her heart be satisfied? Could she ever love enough to relieve her love?

The one overmastering desire was to give⁠—nothing for herself, all for him. To give him all things; to ask nothing in return. Her desire was immeasurable⁠—she looked greedily on the earth spread out at the base of the hill⁠—that she might pour plenty at his feet, that she might give him the loveliness of all.

The larks were still singing, but she was not listening now. Their notes were far away, as if they sang higher than the clouds. Tears gathered in her eyes, and dimmed the view of the beauteous morn. Her breast heaved once, and her breath paused in her throat, checked by a sigh. A deep prayer can but end in tears⁠—a prayer like this which has no words, but gives a life instead of them. It was not sorrow, it was the unutterable depth of her joy in the love that held her.

He knew it not⁠—what of that? He might never know⁠—what of that? She had given her life to him, and it was a joy to her that she had done so. But with that joy there mingled the undertone of knowledge and of thought, that she should never, never, not even if his arms were about her, be able to fully pour forth her heart, making him understand her. How could he understand her? How could she ever tell him? And all that she could ever do for him under the happiest circumstances could not amount to one hundredth part of what she wished to do. She felt in that moment of tears that the fruition of human wishes can never equal the desire. The limit is reached long, long before. All falls so short.

Her breath came freely again, and she saw the distant sea clearly⁠—the mist in her eyes was gone. Once more the larks sang sweetly, and she listened. If we cannot reach to ideal things, at least we can do much, nearer to earth. The larks cannot rise to the heavens, but they sing high above their nests, and their voices are sweet to all below them.

Felise raised herself higher on her arm, and looked boldly at the blue sea-line. Her heart rose again; the strong courage in her inspired it. Bright and beautiful as the morning she rose to her feet, dauntless and resolute. Her will was strengthened by love, made ten times stronger. Bold as the sun, unabashed as the day, she would have her will; she claimed love as her right. Come what might, she would be his.