“Which of us is the merrier—you or me? Which of us is the stronger, Joan? The moment I saw you, I thought you looked like one that hadn’t enough of something—as if you weren’t happy; but if you knew that the great beautiful person we call God, was always near you, it would be impossible for you to go on being sad.”
Joan gave a great sigh: her heart knew its own bitterness, and there was little joy in it for a stranger to intermeddle with. But she said to herself the boy would be a gray-haired man before he was twenty, and began to imagine a mission to help him out of these morbid fancies.
“You must surely understand, Cosmo,” she said, “that, while we are in this world, we must live as people of this world, not of another.”
“But you can’t mean that the people of this world are banished from Him who put them in it! He is all the same, in this world and in every other. If anything makes us happy, it must make us much happier to know it for a bit of frozen love—for the love that gives is to the gift as water is to snow. Ah, you should hear our torrent sing in summer, and shout in the spring! The thought of God fills me so full of life that I want to go and do something for everybody. I am never miserable. I don’t think I shall be when my father dies.”
“Oh, Cosmo!—with such a good father as yours! I am shocked.”
Her words struck a pang into her own heart, for she felt as if she had compared his father and hers, over whom she was not miserable. Cosmo turned, and looked at her. The sun was close upon the horizon, and his level rays shone full on the face of the boy.
“Lady Joan,” he said slowly, and with a tremble in his voice, “I should just laugh with delight to have to die for my father. But if he were taken from me now, I should be so proud of him, I should have no room to be miserable. As God makes me glad though I cannot see him, so my father would make me glad though I could not see him. I cannot see him now, and yet I am glad because my father is—away down there in the old castle; and when he is gone from me, I shall be glad still, for he will be somewhere all the same—with God, as he is now. We shall meet again one day, and run at each other.”
It was an odd phrase with which he ended, but Lady Joan did not laugh.
The sun was down, and the cold, blue gray twilight came creeping from the east. They turned and walked home, through a luminous dusk. It would not be dark all night, though the moon did not rise till late, for the snow gave out a ghostly radiance. Surely it must be one of those substances that have the power of drinking and hoarding the light of the sun, that with their memories of it they may thin the darkness! I suspect everything does it more or less. Far below were the lights of the castle, and across an unbroken waste of whiteness the gleams of the village. The air was keen as an essence of points and edges, and the thought of the kitchen fire grew pleasant. Cosmo took Joan’s hand, and down the hill they ran, swiftly descending what they had toilsomely climbed.
As she ran, the thought that one of those lights was burning by the body of her father, rebuked Joan afresh. She was not glad, and she could not be sorry! If Cosmo’s father were to die, Cosmo would be both sorry and glad! But the boy turned his face, ever and again as they ran, up to hers—she was a little taller than he—and his every look comforted her. An attendant boy-angel he seemed, whose business it was to rebuke and console her. If he were her brother, she would be well content never more to leave the savage place! For the strange old man in the red night-cap was such a gentleman! and this odd boy, absolutely unnatural in his goodness, was nevertheless charming! She did not yet know that goodness is the only nature. She regarded it as a noble sort of disease—as something at least which it was possible to have too much of. She had not a suspicion that goodness and nothing else is life and health—that what the universe demands of us is to be good boys and girls.