They fancied that Regina's lovers did not aspire to them; that, while good enough for her, they would not dare to lift their eyes to the beautiful elder daughters of the Rector, the real fact being that none of the four men would have burdened his life with either of the silly, weakly, useless creatures.
Regina, lying with her cheek pressed to the bright green turf, listened in silence to the wild beating of her heart, as she thought of love. "Surely it must mean more than they think and make of it," she told herself when the memory of these men recurred to her. And she leaned most towards the young master, because he had given up his life for love, but, greatly though his enthusiastic mind had pleased her, his face and figure had not, and she did not regret him.
She would look up to the roses leaning over her and repeat to them some Greek lines that fascinated her: "Oh, children, what is this that men call love?" And the roses seemed to quiver and bend lower over her to hear the answer: "Love is not love alone, but indeed is known by many names; it is unbridled violence; it is unslaked thirst; it is intolerable anguish; it is unbounded joy; it is endless lamentation," and as a breath stirred in the garden the trees seemed to throw high their blossoms on the scented breeze in a wild and gay response: "Whatever it is, good or ill, we wait for it, worship it, live for it, die for it." This seemed their song to the girl, and the white doves took it up and echoed it, and the thrushes warbled it in their passionate throats, and the nightingales in the dark parts of the garden trilled out in warm melody the same notes: "Wait for it, worship it, live for it, die for it," and the girl heard it, with a wonderful elation and triumph filling her, for she knew that whatever gift the gods might have denied her in this life they had bestowed the supreme one of all—the power to love, and to inspire love. It was this intuitive knowledge of the great power within her, the limitless capacity for devotion, the aptitude for love, that, paradoxical as it may seem, had kept her from love so far.
She knew that somewhere in the world there must be men who possessed beauty and strength and grace and intellect, all that she loved; and one of these would call up in her that same wild elation, that keen rush of adoration, the vivid joy, that she felt under the sky at sunset, when it arrayed itself in its most glorious colours, or in the garden, when the roses poured over her their fragrance, or in Exeter Cathedral, when the roll of melody from the organ seemed to catch up her breathless soul and carry it away to unknown spheres. She felt in fact that need of her being to worship which, in the young and innocent, is the first knowledge of love. And as her reason revolted from worshipping the doctor or the curate or the Latin master or the assistant master, she knew that she did not love, and she would not marry them. For before a clever and well-awakened mind can give itself over to the worship of any object, either that object must be worthy of the worship, or it must so dazzle the senses of the worshipper, throw such a magic glamour around itself, that it appears to be worthy of it; Regina had never seen anyone yet who could capture her reason or dazzle her senses, and now the query came before her, floating hazily, cloud-like on the horizon of her thoughts, would this new-comer to the Rectory bring with him the power of the sunset skies and the cathedral music?
For a whole fortnight nothing had been talked of except the approaching visit. It had engrossed the entire household. The finest bedroom in the Rectory, with a little sitting-room opening out of it, had been assigned to the guest, and to these rooms the occupants of the house had carried their various treasures, sometimes openly, sometimes surreptitiously. Mrs. Marlow had contributed her favourite lounging-chair from her boudoir, Miss Marlow had lent her silver clock, and Miss Violet Marlow her set of silken cushions from her own sofa, and many more pretty and graceful objects had travelled that way for many days, till the family really felt that their guest would be pleased with the little suite, even accustomed as he was, in their imagination, to be surrounded by tokens of fabulous wealth. Regina that morning had herself placed on the dressing-table as her contribution two lovely roses of perfect shape and hue, in a slender vase of gilded crystal, but Miss Marlow having come in and noticed the divine fragrance filling all the air, and recognising her sister's vase, had seized the golden roses by their heads, torn them out of the water and flung them into the garden, just as Regina was passing underneath. She looked up with a glance of amused irony rather than anger. Such little amenities were not uncommon in the Rectory home.
"You have no business to interfere with his rooms," Miss Marlow called from the window. "We don't want flowers in here, dropping their leaves and making the place untidy."
Regina raised her shoulders a little and passed on in silence, having stooped and gathered up the glorious blossoms, so fresh that they were little hurt by the fall, and they were now blooming in her room. A smile was on her face as she pursued her way. She would wear them that night at dinner and he should admire them on her instead of on his table, that was all.
She walked now from end to end of the garden, thinking of the morrow or the next day, when she would bring him there. All was in perfect order; she had never seen it look more lovely, and she leant at last with a sigh of contentment on the balustrade, gazing across the purple expanse of the sea, to the hazy golden outlines of the distant coast.
How the thrushes sang, till the whole air quivered about her with melody. And but for love they would never sing at all, and but for love the roses would have no scent, the doves would not coo, the trees would have no blossom and no fruit. What a wonderful gift it is to the world, she thought, this love!—the author of everything pleasing and beautiful, the source of eternal life. No wonder that through all the ages men have worshipped it and sung of it, and poured out all the powers of their brain to magnify it. And yet the never-ending pæan chanted throughout the centuries is but a feeble and inadequate whisper of its greatness. Man's voice being human is not attuned to sing fittingly of what is divine. Men realise that life comes from love, but how many realise that also all the decoration of life comes from it! Even if we could exist without love, with it we must give up the beauty of women, the fragrance of flowers, the melody of birds, the charm of the human voice, the power of the brain.
These are not separate entities, they are simply the effects of the power of love.