n.
There's a picture somewhere--not a good one, I know--of a young
Highlander being taken away by soldiers from his sweetheart. Derek is
fiery and wild and shy and proud and dark--like the man in that picture.
That last day along the hills--along and along--with the wind in our
faces, I could have walked forever; and then Joyfields at the end! Their
mother's wonderful; I'm afraid of her. But Uncle Tod is a perfect dear.
I never saw any one before who noticed so many things that I didn't, and
nothing that I did. I am sure he has in him what Mr. Cuthcott said we
were all losing--the love of simple, natural conditions. And then, THE
moment, when I stood with Derek at the end of the orchard, to say
good-by. The field below covered with those moony-white flowers, and the
cows all dark and sleepy; the holy feeling down there was wonderful, and
in the branches over our heads, too, and the velvety, starry sky, and the
dewiness against one's face, and the great, broad silence--it was all
worshipping something, and I was worshipping--worshipping happiness. I
WAS happy, and I think HE was. Perhaps I shall never be so happy again.
When he kissed me I didn't think the whole world had so much happiness in
it. I know now that I'm not cold a bit; I used to think I was. I
believe I could go with him anywhere, and do anything he wanted. What
would Dad think? Only the other day I was saying I wanted to know
everything. One only knows through love. It's love that makes the world
all beautiful--makes it like those pictures that seem to be wrapped in
gold, makes it like a dream--no, not like a dream--like a wonderful tune.
I suppose that's glamour--a goldeny, misty, lovely feeling, as if my soul
were wandering about with his--not in my body at all. I want it to go on
and on wandering--oh! I don't want it back in my body, all hard and
inquisitive and aching! I shall never know anything so lovely as loving
him and being loved. I don't want anything more--nothing! Stay with me,
please--Happiness! Don't go away and leave me! . . . They frighten me,
though; he frightens me--their idealism; wanting to do great things, and
fight for justice. If only I'd been brought up more like that--but
everything's been so different. It's their mother, I think, even more
than themselves. I seem to have grown up just looking on at life as at a
show; watching it, thinking about it, trying to understand--not living it
at all. I must get over t