Lilith, George MacDonald [autobiographies to read .TXT] 📗

of light in the chamber, and I saw the face of Adam approaching. He had not the candle, yet I saw him. At the side of Lona’s couch, he looked down on her with a questioning smile, and then greeted me across it.

“We have been to the top of the hill to hear the waters on their way,” he said. “They will be in the den of the monsters tonight.⁠—But why did you not await our return?”

“My child could not sleep,” I answered.

“She is fast asleep!” he rejoined.

“Yes, now!” I said; “but she was awake when I laid her down.”

“She was asleep all the time!” he insisted. “She was perhaps dreaming about you⁠—and came to you?”

“She did.”

“And did you not see that her eyes were closed?”

“Now I think of it, I did.”

“If you had looked ere you laid her down, you would have seen her asleep on the couch.”

“That would have been terrible!”

“You would only have found that she was no longer in your arms.”

“That would have been worse!”

“It is, perhaps, to think of; but to see it would not have troubled you.”

“Dear father,” I said, “how is it that I am not sleepy? I thought I should go to sleep like the Little Ones the moment I laid my head down!”

“Your hour is not quite come. You must have food ere you sleep.”

“Ah, I ought not to have lain down without your leave, for I cannot sleep without your help! I will get up at once!”

But I found my own weight more than I could move.

“There is no need: we will serve you here,” he answered. “⁠—You do not feel cold, do you?”

“Not too cold to lie still, but perhaps too cold to eat!”

He came to the side of my couch, bent over me, and breathed on my heart. At once I was warm.

As he left me, I heard a voice, and knew it was the Mother’s. She was singing, and her song was sweet and soft and low, and I thought she sat by my bed in the dark; but ere it ceased, her song soared aloft, and seemed to come from the throat of a woman-angel, high above all the region of larks, higher than man had ever yet lifted up his heart. I heard every word she sang, but could keep only this:⁠—

“Many a wrong, and its curing song;
Many a road, and many an inn;
Room to roam, but only one home
For all the world to win!”

and I thought I had heard the song before.

Then the three came to my couch together, bringing me bread and wine, and I sat up to partake of it. Adam stood on one side of me, Eve and Mara on the other.

“You are good indeed, father Adam, mother Eve, sister Mara,” I said, “to receive me! In my soul I am ashamed and sorry!”

“We knew you would come again!” answered Eve.

“How could you know it?” I returned.

“Because here was I, born to look after my brothers and sisters!” answered Mara with a smile.

“Every creature must one night yield himself and lie down,” answered Adam: “he was made for liberty, and must not be left a slave!”

“It will be late, I fear, ere all have lain down!” I said.

“There is no early or late here,” he rejoined. “For him the true time then first begins who lays himself down. Men are not coming home fast; women are coming faster. A desert, wide and dreary, parts him who lies down to die from him who lies down to live. The former may well make haste, but here is no haste.”

“To our eyes,” said Eve, “you were coming all the time: we knew Mara would find you, and you must come!”

“How long is it since my father lay down?” I asked.

“I have told you that years are of no consequence in this house,” answered Adam; “we do not heed them. Your father will wake when his morning comes. Your mother, next to whom you are lying⁠—”

“Ah, then, it is my mother!” I exclaimed.

“Yes⁠—she with the wounded hand,” he assented; “⁠—she will be up and away long ere your morning is ripe.”

“I am sorry.”

“Rather be glad.”

“It must be a sight for God Himself to see such a woman come awake!”

“It is indeed a sight for God, a sight that makes her Maker glad! He sees of the travail of His soul, and is satisfied!⁠—Look at her once more, and sleep.”

He let the rays of his candle fall on her beautiful face.

“She looks much younger!” I said.

“She is much younger,” he replied. “Even Lilith already begins to look younger!”

I lay down, blissfully drowsy.

“But when you see your mother again,” he continued, “you will not at first know her. She will go on steadily growing younger until she reaches the perfection of her womanhood⁠—a splendour beyond foresight. Then she will open her eyes, behold on one side her husband, on the other her son⁠—and rise and leave them to go to a father and a brother more to her than they.”

I heard as one in a dream. I was very cold, but already the cold caused me no suffering. I felt them put on me the white garment of the dead. Then I forgot everything. The night about me was pale with sleeping faces, but I was asleep also, nor knew that I slept.

XLIII The Dreams That Came

I grew aware of existence, aware also of the profound, the infinite cold. I was intensely blessed⁠—more blessed, I know, than my heart, imagining, can now recall. I could not think of warmth with the least suggestion of pleasure. I knew that I had enjoyed it, but could not remember how. The cold had soothed every care, dissolved every pain, comforted every sorrow. Comforted? Nay; sorrow was swallowed up in the life drawing nigh to restore every good and lovely thing a hundredfold! I lay at peace, full of the quietest expectation, breathing the damp odours of Earth’s bountiful bosom,