Lilith by George MacDonald (ebook reader below 3000 .TXT) 📕

“I weep,” he answered, “because they will not let me die. I have been to the house of death, and its mistress, notwithstanding my years, refuses me. Intercede for me, sir, if you know her, I pray you.”

“Nay, sir,” I replied, “that I cannot; for she refuses none whom it is lawful for her to receive.”

“How know you this of her? You have never sought death! you are much too young to desire it!”

“I fear your words may indicate that, were you young again, neither would you desire it.”

“Indeed, young sir, I would not! and certain I am that you cannot.”

“I may not be old enough to desire to die, but I am young enough to desire to live indeed! Therefore I go now to learn if she will at length take me in. You wish to die because you do not care to live: she will not open her door to you, for no one can die who does not long to live.”

“It ill becomes your youth to mock a friendless old man. Pray, cease your riddles!”

“Did not then the Mother tell you something of the same sort?”

“In truth I believe she did; but I gave little heed to her excuses.”

“Ah, then, sir,” I rejoined, “it is but too plain you have not yet learned to die, and I am heartily grieved for you. Such had I too been but for the Lady of Sorrow. I am indeed young, but I have wept many tears; pardon me, therefore, if I presume to offer counsel:⁠—Go to the Lady of Sorrow, and ‘take with both hands’1 what she will give you. Yonder lies her cottage. She is not in it now, but her door stands open, and there is bread and water on her table. Go in; sit down; eat of the bread; drink of the water; and wait there until she appear. Then ask counsel of her, for she is true, and her wisdom is great.”

He fell to weeping afresh, and I left him weeping. What I said, I fear he did not heed. But Mara would find him!

The sun was down, and the moon unrisen, when I reached the abode of the monsters, but it was still as a stone till I passed over. Then I heard a noise of many waters, and a great cry behind me, but I did not turn my head.

Ere I reached the house of death, the cold was bitter and the darkness dense; and the cold and the darkness were one, and entered into my bones together. But the candle of Eve, shining from the window, guided me, and kept both frost and murk from my heart.

The door stood open, and the cottage lay empty. I sat down disconsolate.

And as I sat, there grew in me such a sense of loneliness as never yet in my wanderings had I felt. Thousands were near me, not one was with me! True, it was I who was dead, not they; but, whether by their life or by my death, we were divided! They were alive, but I was not dead enough even to know them alive: doubt would come. They were, at best, far from me, and helpers I had none to lay me beside them!

Never before had I known, or truly imagined desolation! In vain I took myself to task, saying the solitude was but a seeming: I was awake, and they slept⁠—that was all! it was only that they lay so still and did not speak! they were with me now, and soon, soon I should be with them!

I dropped Adam’s old spade, and the dull sound of its fall on the clay floor seemed reverberated from the chamber beyond: a childish terror seized me; I sat and stared at the coffin-door.⁠—But father Adam, mother Eve, sister Mara would soon come to me, and then⁠—welcome the cold world and the white neighbours! I forgot my fears, lived a little, and loved my dead.

Something did move in the chamber of the dead! There came from it what was like a dim, far-off sound, yet was not what I knew as sound. My soul sprang into my ears. Was it a mere thrill of the dead air, too slight to be heard, but quivering in every spiritual sense? I knew without hearing, without feeling it!

The something was coming! it drew nearer! In the bosom of my desertion awoke an infant hope. The noiseless thrill reached the coffin-door⁠—became sound, and smote on my ear.

The door began to move⁠—with a low, soft creaking of its hinges. It was opening! I ceased to listen, and stared expectant.

It opened a little way, and a face came into the opening. It was Lona’s. Its eyes were closed, but the face itself was upon me, and seemed to see me. It was white as Eve’s, white as Mara’s, but did not shine like their faces. She spoke, and her voice was like a sleepy night-wind in the grass.

“Are you coming, king?” it said. “I cannot rest until you are with me, gliding down the river to the great sea, and the beautiful dreamland. The sleepiness is full of lovely things: come and see them.”

“Ah, my darling!” I cried. “Had I but known!⁠—I thought you were dead!”

She lay on my bosom⁠—cold as ice frozen to marble. She threw her arms, so white, feebly about me, and sighed⁠—

“Carry me back to my bed, king. I want to sleep.”

I bore her to the death-chamber, holding her tight lest she should dissolve out of my arms. Unaware that I saw, I carried her straight to her couch.

“Lay me down,” she said, “and cover me from the warm air; it hurts⁠—a little. Your bed is there, next to mine. I shall see you when I wake.”

She was already asleep. I threw myself on my couch⁠—blessed as never was man on the eve of his wedding.

“Come, sweet cold,” I said, “and still my heart speedily.”

But there came instead a glimmer