She and I | Page 3

Love's busy fingers had woven a halo of romance
around her, only allowing me to behold her through a sort of fairy

glamour; and making me forget everything concerning her, save that
she was "Min," and that I loved her, and that she was the darling of my
heart?
I will.
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