Adam stood in the door, holding the candle to guide us, and talking with his wife, who, behind him, laid bread and wine on the table within.
“Happy children,” I heard her say, “to have looked already on the face of my daughter! Surely it is the loveliest in the great world!”
When we reached the door, Adam welcomed us almost merrily. He set the candle on the threshold, and going to the elephants, would have taken the princess to carry her in; but she repulsed him, and pushing her elephants asunder, stood erect between them. They walked from beside her, and left her with him who had been her husband—ashamed indeed of her gaunt uncomeliness, but unsubmissive. He stood with a welcome in his eyes that shone through their severity.
“We have long waited for thee, Lilith!” he said.
She returned him no answer.
Eve and her daughter came to the door.
“The mortal foe of my children!” murmured Eve, standing radiant in her beauty.
“Your children are no longer in her danger,” said Mara; “she has turned from evil.”
“Trust her not hastily, Mara,” answered her mother; “she has deceived a multitude!”
“But you will open to her the mirror of the Law of Liberty, mother, that she may go into it, and abide in it! She consents to open her hand and restore: will not the great Father restore her to inheritance with His other children?”
“I do not know Him!” murmured Lilith, in a voice of fear and doubt.
“Therefore it is that thou art miserable,” said Adam.
“I will go back whence I came!” she cried, and turned, wringing her hands, to depart.
“That is indeed what I would have thee do, where I would have thee go—to Him from whom thou camest! In thy agony didst thou not cry out for Him?”
“I cried out for Death—to escape Him and thee!”
“Death is even now on his way to lead thee to Him. Thou knowest neither Death nor the Life that dwells in Death! Both befriend thee. I am dead, and would see thee dead, for I live and love thee. Thou art weary and heavy-laden: art thou not ashamed? Is not the being thou hast corrupted become to thee at length an evil thing? Wouldst thou yet live on in disgrace eternal? Cease thou canst not: wilt thou not be restored and BE?”
She stood silent with bowed head.
“Father,” said Mara, “take her in thine arms, and carry her to her couch. There she will open her hand, and die into life.”
“I will walk,” said the princess.
Adam turned and led the way. The princess walked feebly after him into the cottage.
Then Eve came out to me where I sat with Lona in my bosom. She reached up her arms, took her from me, and carried her in. I dismounted, and the children also. The horse and the elephants stood shivering; Mara patted and stroked them every one; they lay down and fell asleep. She led us into the cottage, and gave the Little Ones of the bread and wine on the table. Adam and Lilith were standing there together, but silent both.
Eve came from the chamber of death, where she had laid Lona down, and offered of the bread and wine to the princess.
“Thy beauty slays me! It is death I would have, not food!” said Lilith, and turned from her.
“This food will help thee to die,” answered Eve.
But Lilith would not taste of it.
“If thou wilt nor eat nor drink, Lilith,” said Adam, “come and see the place where thou shalt lie in peace.”
He led the way through the door of death, and she followed submissive. But when her foot crossed the threshold she drew it back, and pressed her hand to her bosom, struck through with the cold immortal.
A wild blast fell roaring on the roof, and died away in a moan. She stood ghastly with terror.
“It is he!” said her voiceless lips: I read their motion.
“Who, princess!” I whispered.
“The great Shadow,” she murmured.
“Here he cannot enter,” said Adam. “Here he can hurt no one. Over him also is power given me.”
“Are the children in the house?” asked Lilith, and at the word the heart of Eve began to love her.
“He never dared touch a child,” she said. “Nor have you either ever hurt a child. Your own daughter you have but sent into the loveliest sleep, for she was already a long time dead when you slew her. And now Death shall be the atonemaker; you shall sleep together.”
“Wife,” said Adam, “let us first put the children to bed, that she may see them safe!”
He came back to fetch them. As soon as he was gone, the princess knelt to Eve, clasped her knees, and said,
“Beautiful Eve, persuade your husband to kill me: to you he will listen! Indeed I would but cannot open my hand.”
“You cannot die without opening it. To kill you would not serve you,” answered Eve. “But indeed he cannot! no one can kill you but the Shadow; and whom he kills never knows she is dead, but lives to do his will, and thinks she is doing her own.”
“Show me then to my grave; I am so weary I can live no longer. I must go to the Shadow—yet I would not!”
She did not, could not understand!
She struggled to rise, but fell at the feet of Eve. The Mother lifted, and carried her inward.
I followed Adam and Mara and the children into the chamber of death. We passed Eve with Lilith in her arms, and went farther in.
“You shall not go to the Shadow,” I heard Eve say, as we passed them. “Even now is his head under my heel!”
The dim light in Adam’s hand glimmered on the sleeping faces, and as he went on, the darkness closed over them. The very air seemed dead: was it because none of the sleepers breathed it? Profoundest sleep filled the wide place. It was as if not one had waked since last I was there, for the forms I had then noted lay there still. My father was just as I had left him, save that he seemed yet nearer to a perfect peace. The woman beside him looked younger.
The darkness, the cold, the silence, the still air, the faces of the lovely dead, made the hearts of the children beat softly, but their little tongues would talk—with low, hushed voices.
“What a curious place to sleep in!” said one, “I would rather be in my nest!” “It is SO cold!” said another.
“Yes, it is cold,” answered our host; “but you will not be cold in your sleep.”
“Where are our nests?” asked more than one, looking round and seeing no couch unoccupied.
“Find places, and sleep where you choose,” replied Adam.
Instantly they scattered, advancing fearlessly beyond the light, but we still heard their gentle voices, and it was plain they saw where I could not.
“Oh,” cried one, “here is such a beautiful lady!—may I sleep beside her? I will creep in quietly, and not wake her.”
“Yes, you may,” answered the voice of Eve behind us; and we came to the couch while the little fellow was yet creeping slowly and softly under the sheet. He laid his head beside the lady’s, looked up at us, and was still. His eyelids fell; he was asleep.
We went a little farther, and there was another who had climbed up on the couch of a woman.
“Mother! mother!” he cried, kneeling over her, his face close to hers. “—She’s so cold she can’t speak,” he said, looking up to us; “but I will soon make her warm!”
He lay down, and pressing close to her, put his little arm over her. In an instant he too was asleep, smiling an absolute content.
We came to a third Little One; it was Luva. She stood on tiptoe, leaning over the edge of a couch.
“My own mother wouldn’t have me,” she said softly: “will you?”
Receiving no reply, she looked up at Eve. The great mother lifted her to the couch, and she got at once under the snowy covering.
Each of the Little Ones had by this time, except three of the boys, found at least an unobjecting bedfellow, and lay still and white beside a still, white woman. The little orphans had adopted mothers! One tiny girl had chosen a father to sleep with, and that was mine. A boy lay by the side of the beautiful matron with the slow-healing hand. On the middle one of the three couches hitherto unoccupied, lay Lona.