"How bright the night has become," said Algernon Grey, after a pause. "Thus very often, when we least expect it, the storms that hang over some part of every man's career, are wafted away, and all is clear again."
"And but the brighter for the storm," said Agnes.
"Ay," he rejoined, "I fear me much, sweet lady, that we should never enjoy the sunshine but for the shade. It is in the varieties of creation and the constant changes of the world's life, that the grand harmony of the whole consists. Let the tone of an instrument be ever so sweet, what effect would it produce upon the ear, if it had but one note? How poor is a concert with but two or three instruments! But in the succession and combination of many notes and many tones, how grand, how beautiful is the melodious harmony!--Skies ever blue, and pastures ever green," he continued, changing to a gayer tone, "would, I believe, become very dull and wearisome, notwithstanding all the verses of pastoral poets."
"So men think, I have been told," answered Agnes; "and that they choose their wives of tempers that may give them some variety."
"Yes, but there may be pleasant varieties, too," answered Algernon Grey, "even in one character. The storm is, in itself, a grand thing; but no man, methinks, would unroof his house to let it in; and, besides, dear lady, all things have their fitness. The drums and trumpets of an army are fine enough, mellowed by the open air; but who would think of enjoying a full choir thereof in a narrow room? After all," he continued, "in most classes of society this same marriage may be called a matter of fate rather than of choice, arranged by friends, or fixed by circumstances. Man little knows how rarely in life he is a free agent, and, above all, how rarely in this respect. Then again," he continued, "even when man or woman is truly said to make a choice, do they ever know that which they choose. We walk about with vizards, my sweet friend; ay, even up to the steps of the altar; and the real face is seldom seen till the ring is on the finger."
He spoke very seriously; but Agnes replied with a laugh: "Perhaps, if it were not so, no one would marry at all; and yet," she added, in a graver tone, "if I thought I did wear one of these same masks, I would never rest till I had torn it off; for I would much rather never be loved, than lose the love I had obtained."
"A far happier fate!" answered Algernon Grey; and then changing the subject suddenly, he said, "How is it our discourse ever gets so grave? With this fair scene around us, and such a joyful escape as we have both had, methinks, we ought both to be more gay. It wants but the nightingale's song to make this moonlight night complete in beauty."
"Ah! but the dear nightingale," answered the lady, "is penurious of his melody here; and in the month of June, or, at the latest, this last month, all his sweet notes come to an end. I know not why; for the people give the nightingale another flower; but, in my mind, he is always associated with the violet. His song is so sweet, so tranquil, so fragrant I may call it, so unlike the gay and perfumed rose, the flower of summer sunshine, whose blushing breast seems to court the gaze he shrinks from, that I can never fancy he would love the rose; while the calm violet, pouring forth her sweet breath in the shade, is his true image."
As she spoke, a distant light seemed to glimmer on the plain; but in a different direction to that in which their steps were bent; and they paused for a moment to remark it.
"It moves, it moves," said Algernon Grey; "it is but an ignis-fatuus. How many of them are there in this world. Each man of us, I believe, has his own, which he follows blindly. Love here, ambition there, avarice elsewhere, the desire of worldly honours, the gewgaw splendours of pomp and state, the miserable false light of fanaticism, the dull foul lamp of superstition, are all so many Will-o'-the-wisps, leading us ever from the broad, straightforward way. So will not we, fair lady; but by your good leave, go upon this path, which will conduct us somewhere. Here are tracks of wheels, I see, with the moonlight glistening on the pools the storm has left--but your step seems weary. Do I go too fast?"