Shirley (67 page)

"You could not write French as you once could, I dare say?"

"Oh no! I should make strange work of my concords now."

"You could not compose the
devoir
of 'La Première Femme Savante'?"

"Do you still remember that rubbish?"

"Every line."

"I doubt you."

"I will engage to repeat it word for word."

"You would stop short at the first line."

"Challenge me to the experiment."

"I challenge you."

He proceeded to recite the following. He gave it in French, but we must translate, on pain of being

unintelligible to some readers.

"And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were

born unto them, that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took

them wives of all which they chose."

This was in the dawn of time, before the morning stars were set, and while they yet sang together.

The epoch is so remote, the mists and dewy gray of matin twilight veil it with so vague an obscurity, that all distinct feature of custom, all clear line of locality, evade perception and baffle research. It must suffice to know that the world then existed; that men peopled it; that man's nature, with its passions, sympathies, pains, and pleasures, informed the planet and gave it soul.

A certain tribe colonized a certain spot on the globe; of what race this tribe—unknown; in what region that spot—untold. We usually think of the East when we refer to transactions of that date; but

who shall declare that there was no life in the West, the South, the North? What is to disprove that this tribe, instead of camping under palm groves in Asia, wandered beneath island oak woods rooted in

our own seas of Europe?

It is no sandy plain, nor any circumscribed and scant oasis I seem to realize. A forest valley, with

rocky sides and brown profundity of shade, formed by tree crowding on tree, descends deep before

me. Here, indeed, dwell human beings, but so few, and in alleys so thick branched and overarched, they are neither heard nor seen. Are they savage? Doubtless. They live by the crook and the bow; half

shepherds, half hunters, their flocks wander wild as their prey. Are they happy? No, not more happy

than we are at this day. Are they good? No, not better than ourselves. Their nature is our nature—

human both. There is one in this tribe too often miserable—a child bereaved of both parents. None cares for this child. She is fed sometimes, but oftener forgotten. A hut rarely receives her; the hollow tree and chill cavern are her home. Forsaken, lost, and wandering, she lives more with the wild beast

and bird than with her own kind. Hunger and cold are her comrades; sadness hovers over, and solitude besets her round. Unheeded and unvalued, she should die; but she both lives and grows. The

green wilderness nurses her, and becomes to her a mother; feeds her on juicy berry, on saccharine root and nut.

There is something in the air of this clime which fosters life kindly. There must be something, too,

in its dews which heals with sovereign balm. Its gentle seasons exaggerate no passion, no sense; its

temperature tends to harmony; its breezes, you would say, bring down from heaven the germ of pure

thought and purer feeling. Not grotesquely fantastic are the forms of cliff and foliage, not violently

vivid the colouring of flower and bird. In all the grandeur of these forests there is repose; in all their freshness there is tenderness.

The gentle charm vouchsafed to flower and tree, bestowed on deer and dove, has not been denied to

the human nursling. All solitary, she has sprung up straight and graceful. Nature cast her features in a fine mould; they have matured in their pure, accurate first lines, unaltered by the shocks of disease.

No fierce dry blast has dealt rudely with the surface of her frame; no burning sun has crisped or withered her tresses. Her form gleams ivory-white through the trees; her hair flows plenteous, long,

and glossy; her eyes, not dazzled by vertical fires, beam in the shade large and open, and full and dewy. Above those eyes, when the breeze bares her forehead, shines an expanse fair and ample—a clear, candid page, whereon knowledge, should knowledge ever come, might write a golden record.

You see in the desolate young savage nothing vicious or vacant. She haunts the wood harmless and

thoughtful, though of what one so untaught can think it is not easy to divine.

On the evening of one summer day, before the Flood, being utterly alone—for she had lost all trace

of her tribe, who had wandered leagues away, she knew not where—she went up from the vale, to watch Day take leave and Night arrive. A crag overspread by a tree was her station. The oak roots, turfed and mossed, gave a seat; the oak boughs, thick-leaved, wove a canopy.

Slow and grand the Day withdrew, passing in purple fire, and parting to the farewell of a wild, low

chorus from the woodlands. Then Night entered, quiet as death. The wind fell, the birds ceased singing. Now every nest held happy mates, and hart and hind slumbered blissfully safe in their lair.

The girl sat, her body still, her soul astir; occupied, however, rather in feeling than in thinking, in

wishing than hoping, in imagining than projecting. She felt the world, the sky, the night, boundlessly

mighty. Of all things herself seemed to herself the centre—a small, forgotten atom of life, a spark of

soul, emitted inadvertent from the great creative source, and now burning unmarked to waste in the

heart of a black hollow. She asked, was she thus to burn out and perish, her living light doing no good, never seen, never needed—a star in an else starless firmament, which nor shepherd, nor wanderer, nor sage, nor priest tracked as a guide or read as a prophecy? Could this be, she demanded,

when the flame of her intelligence burned so vivid; when her life beat so true, and real, and potent;

when something within her stirred disquieted, and restlessly asserted a God-given strength, for which

it insisted she should find exercise?

She gazed abroad on Heaven and Evening. Heaven and Evening gazed back on her. She bent down,

searching bank, hill, river, spread dim below. All she questioned responded by oracles. She heard—

she was impressed; but she could not understand. Above her head she raised her hands joined together.

"Guidance—help—comfort—come!" was her cry.

There was no voice, nor any that answered.

She waited, kneeling, steadfastly looking up. Yonder sky was sealed; the solemn stars shone alien

and remote.

At last one overstretched chord of her agony slacked; she thought Something above relented; she

felt as if Something far round drew nigher; she heard as if Silence spoke. There was no language, no

word, only a tone.

Again—a fine, full, lofty tone, a deep, soft sound, like a storm whispering, made twilight undulate.

Once more, profounder, nearer, clearer, it rolled harmonious.

Yet again—a distinct voice passed between Heaven and Earth.

"Eva!"

If Eva were not this woman's name, she had none. She rose. "Here am I."

"Eva!"

"O Night (it can be but Night that speaks), I am here!"

The voice, descending, reached Earth.

"Eva!"

"Lord," she cried, "behold thine handmaid!"

She had her religion—all tribes held some creed.

"I come—a Comforter!"

"Lord, come quickly!"

The Evening flushed full of hope; the Air panted; the Moon—rising before—ascended large, but her light showed no shape.

"Lean towards me, Eva. Enter my arms; repose thus."

"Thus I lean, O Invisible but felt! And what art thou?"

"Eva, I have brought a living draught from heaven. Daughter of Man, drink of my cup!"

"I drink: it is as if sweetest dew visited my lips in a full current. My arid heart revives; my affliction is lightened; my strait and struggle are gone. And the night changes! the wood, the hill, the moon, the

wide sky—all change!"

"All change, and for ever. I take from thy vision darkness; I loosen from thy faculties fetters! I level in thy path obstacles; I with my presence fill vacancy. I claim as mine the lost atom of life. I take to myself the spark of soul—burning heretofore forgotten!"

"O take me! O claim me! This is a god."

"This is a son of God—one who feels himself in the portion of life that stirs you. He is suffered to reclaim his own, and so to foster and aid that it shall not perish hopeless."

"A son of God! Am I indeed chosen?"

"Thou only in this land. I saw thee that thou wert fair; I knew thee that thou wert mine. To me it is given to rescue, to sustain, to cherish mine own. Acknowledge in me that Seraph on earth named Genius."

"My glorious Bridegroom! true Dayspring from on high! All I would have at last I possess. I receive a revelation. The dark hint, the obscure whisper, which have haunted me from childhood, are

interpreted. Thou art He I sought. Godborn, take me, thy bride!"

"Unhumbled, I can take what is mine. Did I not give from the altar the very flame which lit Eva's

being? Come again into the heaven whence thou wert sent."

That Presence, invisible but mighty, gathered her in like a lamb to the fold; that voice, soft but all-

pervading, vibrated through her heart like music. Her eye received no image; and yet a sense visited

her vision and her brain as of the serenity of stainless air, the power of sovereign seas, the majesty of marching stars, the energy of colliding elements, the rooted endurance of hills wide based, and, above all, as of the lustre of heroic beauty rushing victorious on the Night, vanquishing its shadows

like a diviner sun.

Such was the bridal hour of Genius and Humanity. Who shall rehearse the tale of their after-union?

Who shall depict its bliss and bale? Who shall tell how He between whom and the Woman God put

enmity forged deadly plots to break the bond or defile its purity? Who shall record the long strife between Serpent and Seraph:—How still the Father of Lies insinuated evil into good, pride into wisdom, grossness into glory, pain into bliss, poison into passion? How the "dreadless Angel" defied, resisted, and repelled? How again and again he refined the polluted cup, exalted the debased emotion,

rectified the perverted impulse, detected the lurking venom, baffled the frontless temptation—

purified, justified, watched, and withstood? How, by his patience, by his strength, by that unutterable

excellence he held from God—his Origin—this faithful Seraph fought for Humanity a good fight through time; and, when Time's course closed, and Death was encountered at the end, barring with fleshless arm the portals of Eternity, how Genius still held close his dying bride, sustained her through the agony of the passage, bore her triumphant into his own home, Heaven; restored her, redeemed, to Jehovah, her Maker; and at last, before Angel and Archangel, crowned her with the crown of Immortality?

Who shall of these things write the chronicle?

"I never could correct that composition," observed Shirley, as Moore concluded. "Your censor-pencil scored it with condemnatory lines, whose signification I strove vainly to fathom."

She had taken a crayon from the tutor's desk, and was drawing little leaves, fragments of pillars,

broken crosses, on the margin of the book.

"French may be half forgotten, but the habits of the French lesson are retained, I see," said Louis.

"My books would now, as erst, be unsafe with you. My newly-bound St. Pierre would soon be like my

Racine—Miss Keeldar, her mark, traced on every page."

Shirley dropped her crayon as if it burned her fingers.

"Tell me what were the faults of that
devoir
?" she asked. "Were they grammatical errors, or did you object to the substance?"

"I never said that the lines I drew were indications of faults at all. You would have it that such was the case, and I refrained from contradiction."

"What else did they denote?"

"No matter now."

"Mr. Moore," cried Henry, "make Shirley repeat some of the pieces she used to say so well by heart."

"If I ask for any, it will be 'Le Cheval Dompté,'" said Moore, trimming with his penknife the pencil Miss Keeldar had worn to a stump.

She turned aside her head; the neck, the clear cheek, forsaken by their natural veil, were seen to flush warm.

"Ah! she has not forgotten, you see, sir," said Henry, exultant. "She knows how naughty she was."

A smile, which Shirley would not permit to expand, made her lip tremble; she bent her face, and hid

it half with her arms, half in her curls, which, as she stooped, fell loose again. "Certainly I was a rebel," she answered.

"A rebel!" repeated Henry. "Yes; you and papa had quarrelled terribly, and you set both him and mamma, and Mrs. Pryor, and everybody, at defiance. You said he had insulted you——"

"He
had
insulted me," interposed Shirley.

"And you wanted to leave Sympson Grove directly. You packed your things up, and papa threw them out of your trunk; mamma cried, Mrs. Pryor cried; they both stood wringing their hands begging you to be patient; and you knelt on the floor with your things and your up-turned box before

you, looking, Shirley, looking—why, in one of
your
passions. Your features, in such passions, are not distorted; they are fixed, but quite beautiful. You scarcely look angry, only resolute, and in a certain haste; yet one feels that at such times an obstacle cast across your path would be split as with lightning. Papa lost heart, and called Mr. Moore."

"Enough, Henry."

"No, it is not enough. I hardly know how Mr. Moore managed, except that I recollect he suggested

to papa that agitation would bring on his gout; and then he spoke quietly to the ladies, and got them

away; and afterwards he said to you, Miss Shirley, that it was of no use talking or lecturing now, but