ht 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_.

Who shall hope to express the mystery? Yet, is not thus much true, that,
if it must be allowed to the cynic that love rises in self, it yet has
its zenith and setting in another--in woman as in man? Two meet, and
passion, the joy of the selfish part of each, is born; shall love follow
depends on whether they have a particular grace of nature, love being
the thanksgiving of the unselfish part for the boon granted to the
other. The common nature snatches the joy and forgets the giver, but the
finer never forgets, and deems life but a poor service for a gift so
rare; and, though passion be long since passed, love keeps holy an
eternal memory.

'Love took up the harp of life and smote on all the chords
with might;
Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, pass'd in music
out of sight.'

Since the time of fairy-tales Love has had a way of coming in the
disguise of Duty. What is the story of Beauty and the Beast but an
allegory of true love? We take this maid to be our wedded wife, for her
sake it perhaps seems at th