Her figure seemed to me then a trifle below the middle height, but so
well-proportioned that one could not easily tell, unless standing beside
her, whether she was actually short or tall. Her features were Grecian
in outline, as regarded the upper portion of her face, and irregular
below; with such a delightful little dimple in her curving chin, and
full, pouting lips. Her eyes, calm, steady, quiet, loving, grey eyes,--
eyes symbolical of faith and constancy, and unswerving fidelity of
purpose: eyes that looked like tranquil depths through which you could
see the soul-light reflected from below; and which only wanted the
stirring power of some great motive or passion to illumine them with a
myriad irradiating gems.
But,--pshaw! How can I describe her? It is sacrilege thus to weigh and
consider the points and merits of one we love. Besides, even the most
perfect and faultlessly-beautiful face in the world would be unable to
stand the test of minute examination in detail. As Thomson sings, to
put his poetry into prose, how can you "from the diamond single out each
ray, when all, though trembling with ten thousand hues, effuse one
dazzling undivided light?"
It is impossible. No words of mine could put before you what her face
really was like, as it appeared to me then and afterwards when I had
learnt to watch and decipher every versatile look and expression it
wore. Sometimes, when in repose, it reminded me of one of Raphael's
angels. At other times, when moved by mirth and with arch glances
dancing in the deep, grey eyes,--and they could make merry when they
willed,--it was a witching, teasing, provoking little face. Or, again,
if changed by grief,--under which aspect, thank God! I seldom saw it,--
a noble, resolute face, bearing that indescribable look of calm, set,
high resolve, which the face of the heart-broken daughter of Lear, or
the deep-suffering mother of the Gracchi might have borne. You may say,
perhaps, that this is rhapsody; but what is love without rhapsody?--
what, a love story?
I determined at first, before I had studied it more attentively, that
her face lacked expression; but I made a grievous error. I quickly
altered my opinion on seeing it in profile and upturned; for I marked
the embodiment of devotion it betrayed during the service, when her
voice was raised in the praise of her Maker. She looked now exactly
like the picture of Saint Cecilia; and her appearance recalled to my
mind what one of the American essayists, I forget who it is, observes
quaintly somewhere, that it is no wonder that Catholics pay their vows
to the queen of heaven, for "the unpoetical side of Protestantism is,
that it has no woman to be worshipped."
Of course I had fallen in love with her,--love at first sight; and,
although you may not credit the assertion, allow me to put you right
upon the point and inform you that such a thing is not only possible,
but much more probable, and of more frequent occurrence than a good many
people imagine or believe. Love is sometimes the growth of degrees: it
may also bound into existence in a moment; for there is a certain
sympathetic attraction between some persons, as there is between others
an antipathetical, repulsive force. Understand, passion is not here
alluded to. That is, of the senses. What I mean is, the essence or
spirit of love, as pure as that which may subsist amongst the angels
above.
I felt such love growing within me, as I looked at her, with her
downcast eyes bent over her Bible, or as she sat, with head upraised and
attentive ear, drinking in the words of spiritual wisdom addressed us by
our good old pastor, of which at the time _I_ took but little heed. She
did not seem at all conscious that she was being observed; although she
doubtless knew that I was looking at her, in that instinctive way common
to her sex, in which they manage to take cognisance of everything going
on around them, without so much as raising an eyelid. Indeed, she told
me afterwards that she had been well aware of my watch, and added that
she thought me "very rude, too;" but, just now, she took no notice of my
looks and longings, as far as I could see.
It was not until the close of the service, and when she and her mother
were leaving the pew, that I obtained a glance, a look, which dwelt in
my memory for days and days. She had brought with her into church a
tiny spray of mignonette, and this she left behind her on the seat close
to where she had been sitting. I perceived it, and taking it up, made
as if to restore it to its lawful owner.
A half smile faintly played across her slightly parted lips, as she
looked at me for an instant, an amused sparkle in her clear, grey eyes,
and then turned away with a polite inclination and shake of her little
head, in refusal of the mignonette, which I have kept ever since. But
that smile!
Her whole face lit up, gaining just the colour and expression which it
appeared to lack. My fate was sealed; and, as the organ pealed forth
the grand prayer from _Mose in Egitto_ for the exodus of the
congregation, and I slowly paced down the aisle after my enchantress, my
soul expanded into a very heaven of adoration and love!