Shirley

western wilds; all would be well with you. The hewn tree would make you a hut, the cleared forest yield you fields from its stripped bosom, the buffalo would feel your rifle-shot, and with lowered horns and hump pay homage at your feet.‹
    ›And any Indian tribe of Black-feet, or Flat-heads, would afford us a bride, perhaps?‹
    ›No (hesitating): I think not. The savage is sordid: I think, – that is, I
hope,
– you would neither of you share your hearth with that to which you could not give your heart.‹
    ›What suggested the wild West to your mind, Miss Keeldar? Have you been with me in spirit when I did not see you? Have you entered into my day-dreams, and beheld my brain labouring at its scheme of a future?‹
    She had separated a slip of paper for lighting tapers – a spill, as it is called – into fragments: she threw morsel by morsel into the fire, and stood pensively watching them consume. She did not speak.
    ›How did you learn what you seem to know about my intentions?‹
    ›I know nothing: I am only discovering them now: I spoke at hazard.‹
    ›Your hazard sounds like divination. A tutor I will never be again: never take a pupil after Henry and yourself: not again will I sit habitually at another man's table – no more be the appendage of a family. I am now a man of thirty: I have never been free since I was a boy of ten. I have such a thirst for freedom – such a deep passion to know her and call her mine – such a day-desire and night-longing to win her and possess her, I will not refuse to cross the Atlantic for her sake: her I will follow deep into virgin woods. Mine it shall not be to accept a savage girl as a slave – she could not be a wife. I know no white woman whom I love that would accompany me; but I am certain Liberty will await me, sitting under a pine: when I call her she will come to my log-house, and she shall fill my arms.‹
    She could not hear me speak so unmoved, and she
was
moved. It was right – I meant to move her. She could not answer me, nor could she look at me: I should have been sorry if she could have done either. Her cheek glowed as if a crimson flower, through whose petals the sun shone, had cast its light upon it. On the white lid and dark lashes of her downcast eye, trembled all that is graceful in the sense of half-painful, half-pleasing shame.
    Soon she controlled her emotion, and took all her feelings under command. I saw she had felt insurrection, and was waking to empire – she sat down. There was that in her face which I could read: it said, I see the line which is my limit – nothing shall make me pass it. I feel – I know how far I may reveal my feelings, and when I must clasp the volume. I have advanced to a certain distance, as far as the true and sovereign and undegraded nature of my kind permits – now here I stand rooted. My heart may break if it is baffled: let it break – it shall never dishonour me – it shall never dishonour my sisterhood in me. Suffering before degradation! death before treachery!
    I, for my part, said, ›If she were poor, I would be at her feet. If she were lowly, I would take her in my arms. Her Gold and her Station are two griffins, that guard her on each side. Love looks and longs, and dares not: Passion hovers round, and is kept at bay: Truth and Devotion are scared. There is nothing to lose in winning her – no sacrifice to make – it is all clear gain, and therefore unimaginably difficult.‹
    Difficult or not, something must be done; something must be said. I could not, and would not, sit silent with all that beauty modestly mute in my presence. I spoke thus; and still I spoke with calm: quiet as my words were, I could hear they fell in a tone distinct, round, and deep.
    ›Still, I know I shall be strangely placed with that mountain nymph, Liberty. She is, I suspect, akin to that Solitude which I once wooed, and from which I now seek a divorce. These Oreads are peculiar: they come upon you with an unearthly charm, like some starlight evening; they inspire a wild but not warm delight; their beauty is the beauty of spirits: their grace is not the grace of life, but of seasons or scenes in Nature: theirs is the dewy bloom of morning – the languid flush of evening – the peace of the moon – the changefulness of clouds. I want and will have something different. This elfish splendour looks chill to my vision, and feels frozen to my touch. I am not a poet: I cannot live with abstractions. You, Miss