If I loved you, and you loved me,
How happy this little world would be—
The light of the day, the dancing hours,
The skies, the trees, the birds and flowers,
Would all be part of our perfect gladness;—
And never a note of pain or sadness
Would jar life’s beautiful melody
If I loved you, and you loved me!
‘If I loved you!’ Why, I scarcely know
How if I did, the time would go!—
I should forget my dreary cares,
My sordid toil, my long despairs,
I should watch your smile, and kneel at your feet,
And live my life in the love of you, Sweet!—
So mad, so glad, so proud I should be,
If I loved you, and you loved me!
‘If you loved me!’ Ah, nothing so strange
As that could chance in this world of change!—
As well expect a planet to fall,
Or a Queen to dwell in a beggar’s hall—
But if you did,—romance and glory
Might spring from our lives’ united story,
And angels might be less happy than we—
If I loved you and you loved me!
‘If I loved you and you loved me!’
Alas, ‘t is a joy we shall never see!
You are too fair—I am too cold;—
We shall drift along till we both grow old,
Till we reach the grave, and gasping, die,
Looking back on the days that have passed us by,
When ‘what might have been,’ can no longer be,—
When I lost you, and you lost me!
The song concluded abruptly, and with passion;—and the King, turning on his elbow, glanced with a touch of curiosity at the face of his Queen. There was not a flicker of emotion on its fair cold calmness,—not a quiver on the beautiful lips, or a sigh to stir the quiet breast on which the lilies rested, white and waxen, and heavily odorous. He withdrew his gaze with a half smile at his own folly for imagining that she could be moved by a mere song to any expression of feeling,—even for a moment,—and allowed his glance to wander unreservedly over the forms and features of the other ladies in attendance who, conscious of his regard, dropped their eyelids and blushed softly, after the fashion approved by the heroines of the melodramatic stage. Whereat he began to think of the tiresome sameness of women generally; and their irritating habit of living always at two extremes,—either all ardour, or all coldness.
“Both are equally fatiguing to a man’s mind,” he thought impatiently—“The only woman that is truly fascinating is the one who is never in the same mind two days together. Fair on Monday, plain on Tuesday, sweet on Wednesday, sour on Thursday, tender on Friday, cold on Saturday, and in all moods at once on Sunday,—that being a day of rest! I should adore such a woman as that if I ever met her, because I should never know her mind towards me!”
A soft serenade rendered by violins, with a harp accompaniment, was followed by a gay mazurka, played by all the instruments together,—and this finished the musical programme.
The Queen rose, accepting the hand which the King extended to her, and moved with him slowly across the rose-garden, her long snowy train glistering with jewels, and held up from the greensward by a pretty page, who, in his picturesque costume of rose and gold, demurely followed his Royal lady’s footsteps,—and so amid the curtseying ladies-in-waiting and other attendants, they passed together into a private boudoir, at the threshold of which the Queen’s train-bearer dropped his rich burden of perfumed velvet and gems, and bowing low, left their Majesties together.
Shutting the door upon him with his own hand, the King drew a heavy portière across it,—and then walking round the room saw that every window was closed,—every nook secure. The Queen’s boudoir was one of the most sacred corners in the whole palace,—no one, not even the most intimate lady of the Court in personal attendance on her Majesty, dared enter it without special permission; and this being the case, the Queen herself was faintly moved to surprise at the extra precaution her husband appeared to be taking to ensure privacy. She stood silently watching his movements till he came up to her, and bowing courteously, said:—
“I pray you, be seated, Madam! I will not detain you long.”
She obeyed his gesture, and sank down in a chair with that inimitable noiseless grace which made every attitude of hers a study for an artist, and waited for his next words; while he, standing opposite to her, bent his eyes upon her face with a certain wistfulness and appeal.
“I have never asked you a favour,” he began—“and—since the day we married,—I have never sought your sympathy. The years have come and gone, leaving no visible trace on either you or me, so far as outward looks go,—and if they have scarred and wrinkled us inwardly, only God can see those scars! But as time moves on with a man,—I know not how it is with a woman,—if he be not altogether a fool, he begins to consider the way in which he has spent, or is spending his life,—whether he has been, or is yet likely to be of any use to the world he lives in,—or if he is of less account than the blown froth of the sea, or the sand on the shore. Myriads and myriads of men and women are no more than this—no more than midges or ants or worms;—but every now and then in the course of centuries, one man does stand forth from the million,—one heart does beat courageously enough to send the firm echo of its pulsations through a long vista of time,—one soul does so exalt and inspire the rest of the world by its great example that we are, through its force reminded of something divine,—something high and true in a low wilderness of shams!”
He paused; the Queen raised her beautiful eyes, and smiled strangely.