I suppose that I must send that history back, whatever my feelings as an art custodian may be. Miranda loves someone else and feels it only right to him. And I love someone else, and should, I suppose, feel it only right to her. Actually I have neither feeling. On the contrary, I hold that new love should be grateful to the old love for the lesson in loving which it has taught.
One might adapt the old song and say:
“I could not love thee so, dear love,
Had I not loved before.”
So, I confidently believe that Miranda could not have loved her new love so adequately had she not loved me inadequately before. And, on the other hand, I am well aware that I could never have loved my true love as I do, had it not been for my eight years apprenticeship to Miranda.
Love is a mysterious spiritual training, and we are apt to learn its lessons too late to apply them. Surely it is not too late for Miranda. I can only hope that it is not too late for me.
Having finally decided, both against my heart and my artistic judgment, that Miranda’s request for her letters must be acceded to, I am not yet out of the wood. One more problem, and that not the least, remains to be solved. By what method of transportation shall I transmit so precious and so distinguished a consignment?
I am well aware that there are men alive to-day, who, in all the simple Philistinism of their natures, would commit Miranda’s letters to the care of a stoutly-stringed, brown paper parcel, under the insured promise of a responsible express company. We all have our ways of doing things. That would, of course, be an absolutely secure way. Miranda would surely get her letters back that way, or claim the insurance. No doubt this method of transportation would be as satisfactory to Miranda as any other, for the letters we write mean so little to us—when they come back.
However, I cannot reconcile myself to returning Miranda’s letters in any such commonplace way. I simply couldn’t return Miranda’s letters in a brown paper parcel.
How then shall I return them?