The Day of His Youth

								

grant, I suppose, that there is a higher life to be sought, one of
aspiration, or holy companionship in great deeds and truer speech,--but
as I live by bread, I doubt whether husbands and wives can keep that
track together. You are a young Galahad with Lancelot's heart. I
believe in you, I care mightily for you in a certain way; but you are a
man, and none of the weaknesses of mankind are foreign to you. I am a
woman, and, hard as my heart may be, it is made to be broken. Therefore
say no more to me about this foolish fever of your youth. Believe me,
it is a malady incident to the time. It will pass, in this present
form, sometime to be renewed. You will love other women, and one day
the unexpressive she will appear who has never once peeped into these
worldly text-books. Hand in hand, she and you will learn the lesson
together. It may be bitter, it may not. There are those, I believe,
whom the gods forget; but I have no faith in myself escaping their
thrusts.
[Sidenote: Francis Hume to Zoe Montrose]
Why would you not let me talk to you yesterday, without waiting to
depend on this poverty-stricken expedient? I have not had an instant
alone with you. But I love you! I love you! Who shall prevent me from
saying that! You may refuse to hear it, you may leave my letters
unread; yet all the trees of the forest shall whisper it with gossiping
tongues. But no more of this now. Your letter has made me feel
imperatively that a demand has been made upon me: the demand of proving
myself a man, and worthy, if any man can be, of the inestimable
treasure of your heart. So it becomes me to be calm, and reply to what
you say, not with mad protest, but with just consideration. I am a man,
and no weakness of mankind is foreign to me. I grant it. (Though my
heart throbs within me to swear such fealty as you have never yet
dreamed. But let that pass. My life shall show.) Well, and suppose the
first glow of new acquaintanceship does fade. Let it go. Might not
something finer usurp its place, as the flower is more than leaf or
bud? If it be possible that this great rapture should vanish (O, I know
better than you, with all your worldly lore! It is perennial,
ever-returning like the spring, though snows may intervene), do you
think my tenderness would allow one sweet observance to fade? What
infinite loving must grow of a daily life together, what fine
consideration, what pride in each other's achievement, what mutual joy!
I have talked long enough on paper. Take me, and let me serve you all
my life, guard you, cherish you, and prove the truth.
[Sidenote: Zoe Montrose to Francis Hume]
Tenderness and constancy! that, my child, is friendship--it is not
love. And I can gather a very good article of friendship from many a
wayside bush without going over hot ploughshares to seek it. Listen,
and I will tell you exactly how I learned to interpret the later course
of passion. I lived and breathed it side by side and heart to heart