When I came again to myself I found that what I should once have called
a "phenomenon" had taken place. The city, the dim street, the familiar
architecture of my home, the streams of light from the long windows,
the leaves of the linden tapping on the glass, the woman's shadow on
the wall, and the stirring toward me of the form and face I
loved,--these had vanished.
I was in a strange place; and I was a stranger in it. It seemed rather
a lonely place at first, though it was not unpleasing to me as I looked
abroad. The scenery was mountainous and solemn, but it was therefore
on a large scale and restful to the eye. It had more grandeur than
beauty, to my first impression; but I remembered that I was not in a
condition of mind to be receptive of the merely beautiful, which might
exist for me without my perception of it, even as the life of the dead
existed without the perception of the living. Death, if it had taught
me less up to that time than it might have done to nobler men, had at
least done so much as this: it had accustomed me to respect the unseen,
and to regard its possible action upon the seen as a matter of import.
As I looked forth upon the hills and skies, the plains and forests, and
on to the distant signs of human habitation in the scenery about me, I
thought:--
"I am in a world where it is probable that there exist a thousand
things which I cannot understand to one which I can."
It seemed to me a very uncomfortable state of affairs, whatever it was.
I felt estranged from this place, even before I was acquainted with it.
Nothing in my nature responded to its atmosphere; or, if so, petulantly
and with a kind of helpless antagonism, like the first cry of the
new-born infant in the old life.
As I got myself languidly to my feet, and idly trod the path which lay
before me, for lack of knowing any better thing to do, I began to
perceive that others moved about the scene; that I was not, as I had
thought, alone, but one of a company, each going on his errand as he
would. I only seemed to have no errand; and I was at a great distance
from these people, whose presence, however, though so remote, gave me
something of the sense of companionship which one whose home is in a
lonely spot upon a harbour coast has in watching the head-lights of
anchored ships upon dark nights. Communication there is none, but
desolation is less for knowing that there could be, or for fancying
that there might.
Across the space between us, I looked upon my fellow-citizens in this
new country, with a dull emotion not unlike gratitude for their
existence; but I felt little curiosity about them. I was too unhappy
to be so easily diverted. It seemed to me that the memory of my wife
would become a mania to me, if I could in no way make known to her how
utterly I loved her and how I scorned myself. I cannot say that I felt
much definite interest in the novel circumstances surrounding me,
except as possible resources for some escape from the situation, as it
stood between herself and me. If I could compass any means of
communicating with her, I believed that I could accept my doom, let it
take me where it might or make of me what it would.
Walking thus drearily, alone, and not sorry to be alone in that
unfamiliar company, lost in the fixed idea of my own misery, I suddenly
heard light footsteps hurrying behind me. I thought:--
"There is another spirit; one more of the newly dead, come to this
strange place."
But I did not find it worth my while to turn and greet him, being so
wrapt in my own fate; and when a soft hand touched my arm, I moved from
it with something like dismay.
"Why, Doctor!" said the gentle voice of Mrs. Faith, "did I startle you?
I have been hunting for you everywhere," she added, laughing lightly.
"I was afraid you would feel rather desolate. It is a pity. Now, I am
as _happy_!"
"Did Charley live?" I asked immediately.
"Oh yes, Charley lived; what we used to call living, when we were
there. Poor Charley! I keep thinking how he would enjoy everything if
he were here with me. But his father needed him. It makes me so
happy! I am very happy! Tell me, Doctor, what do you think of this
place? How does it strike you?"
"It is a foreign country," I said sadly.
"Is it, Doctor? Poor Doctor! Why, I feel so much at _home_!"
She lifted a radiant face to me; it was touching to see her expression,
and marvellous to behold the idealization of health on features for so
many years adjusted to pain and patience.
"Dear Doctor!" she cried joyously, "you never thought to see me _well_!
They call this death. Why, I never knew what it was to be _alive_
before!"
"I must make you acquainted with some of the people who live here," she
added, quickly recalling herself from her own interests to mine, with
her natural unselfishness, "it is pitiful to come into this place--as
you have done. You always knew so many people. You had such friends
about you. I never saw you walk alone in all your life before."
"I wish to be alone," I answered moodily. "I care nothing for this
place, or for the men who live here. It is all unfamiliar to me. I am
not happy in it. I am afraid I have not been educated for it. It is
the most unhomelike place I ever saw."
Her eyes filled; she did not answer me at once; when she did it was to
say:
"It will be better. It will be better by and by. Have you seen"--
She stopped and hesitated.
"Have you seen the Lord?" she asked, in a low voice. She was wont, I
remember, to use this word in a way peculiarly her own; as if she were
referring to some personal acquaintance, near to her heart. I shook my
head, looking drearily upon her.
"Don't you _want_ to see Him?"
"I want to see my wife!"
"Oh, I am sorry for you," she said, with forbearing gentleness. "It is
pretty hard. But I wish you _wanted_ Him."
"I want to see my wife! I want to see my wife!" I interrupted
bitterly. And with this I turned away from her and hid my face, for I
could speak no more. When I lifted my eyes, she had gone from me, and
I was again alone. When it was thus too late, it occurred to me that I
had lost an opportunity which might not easily return to me, and I
sought far and wide for Mrs. Faith. I did not find her, though I
aroused myself to the point of accosting some of the inhabitants of the
country, and making definite inquiries for her. I was answered with
great courtesy and uncommon warmth of manner, as if it were the custom
of this place to take a genuine interest in the affairs of strangers;
but I was not able, by any effort on my part, to bring myself in
proximity to her. This trifling disappointment added to my sense of
helplessness in the new life on which I had entered; and I was still as
incredulous of helplessness and as galled by it as I should have been
by the very world of woe which had formed so irritating a dogma to me
in the theology of my day on earth, and which I had regarded as I did
the nightmares of a dyspeptic patient.
In this state of feeling, it was the greatest comfort to me when, at
some period of time which I have no means of defining, but which could
not have been long afterward, Mrs. Faith came suddenly again across my
path. She radiated happiness and health and beauty, and when she held
out both her hands to me in greeting they seemed to glitter, as if she
had stepped from a bath of delight.
"Oh," she said joyously, "have you seen Him _yet_?" It embarrassed me
to be forced to answer in the negative; it gave me a strange feeling,
as if I had been a convict in the country, and denied the passport of
honourable men. I therefore waived her question as well as I might,
and proceeded to make known to her the thought which had been occupying
me.
"_You_ have the _entree_ of the dear earth," I said sadly. "They do
not treat you in the--in the very singular manner with which I am
treated. It is important beyond explanation that I get a message to my
wife. A beggar in the street may be admitted to her charity,--I saw
one at the door the night I stood there. I, only I, am forbidden to
enter. Whatever may be the natural laws which are sot in opposition to
me, they have extraordinary force; I can do nothing against them. I
suppose I do not understand them. If I had an opportunity to study
them--but I have no opportunities at anything. It is a new experience
to me to be so--so disregarded by the general scheme of things. I seem
to be of no more consequence in this place than a bootblack was in the
world, or a paralytic person. It seems useless for me to fly in the
face of fate, since this is fate. I have no hope of being able to
reach my wife. You have privileges in this condition which are
evidently far superior to mine. I have been thinking that possibly you
may be able--and willing--to approach her for me?"
"I don't think it would succeed, Doctor," replied my old patient
quickly. "I'd _do_ it! You know I would! But if I were Helen--She is
a very reserved person; she never talks about her husband, as different
women do; her feeling is of such a sort; I do not think she would
_understand_, if another woman were to speak from you to her."
"Perhaps not," I sighed.
"I am afraid it would be the most hopeless experiment you could make,"
said Mrs. Faith. "She loves you too much for it," she added, with the
divination of her sex. Comforted a little by Mrs. Faith, I quickly
abandoned this project; indeed, I soon abandoned every other which
concerned itself with Helen, and yielded myself with a kind of
desperate lethargy, if I may be allowed the expression, to the fate
which separated me from her. Of resignation I knew nothing. Peace was
the coldest stranger in that strange land to me. I yielded because I
could not help it, not because I would have willed it; and with that
dull strength which grows into the sinews of the soul from necessity,
sought to adjust myself in such fashion as I might to my new
conditions. It occurred to me from time to time that it would have
been an advantage if I had felt more interest in the conditions
themselves; that it would even have spared me something if I had ever
cultivated any familiarity with the possibilities of such a state of
existence. I could not remember that I had in the old life
satisfactorily proved that another _could_ not follow it. It seemed to
me that if I had only so much as exercised my imagination upon the
possible course of events in case another did, it would have been of
some practical service to me now. I was in the position of a man who
is become the victim of a discovery whose rationality he has
contemptuously denied. It was like being struck by a projectile while
one is engaged in disproving the existence of gunpowder.
If a soul may properly be said to be stunned, mine at this time, was
that soul.
In this condition solitude was still so natural to me that I made no
effort to approach the people of the place, and contented myself with
observing them and their affairs from a distance. They seemed a very
happy people. There could be no mistake about that. I did not see a
clouded countenance; nor did I hear an accent of discomfort, or of
pain. I wondered at their joyousness, which I found it as impossible
to share as the sick find it impossible to share what has been called
"the insolence of health." It did, indeed, appear to me as something
almost impertinent, as possession always appears to denial. But I had
never been denied before. I perceived, also, that the inhabitants of
this country were a busy people. They came and went, they met and
parted, with the eagerness of occupation; though there was a
conspicuous absence of the fretful haste to which I had been used in
the conduct of business. I looked upon the avocations of this strange
land, and wondered at them. I could not see with what they were
occupied, or why, or to what end. They affected me perhaps something
as the concerns of the human race may affect the higher animals. I
looked on with an unintelligent envy.
One day, as I was strolling miserably about, a child came up and spoke
to me. He, like myself, was alone. He was a beautiful child,--a
little boy; he seemed scarcely more than an infant. He appeared to be
in search of some one or of something; his brilliant eyes roved
everywhere; he had a noble little head, and carried himself
courageously. He gave no evidence of fear or sadness at his isolated
position but ran right on,--for he was running when I saw him,--as if
he had gone forth upon some happy, childish errand.
But at sight of me he paused; regarded me a moment with the piercing
candour of childhood, as if he took my moral measure after some
inexplicable personal scale of his own; then came directly and put his
hand into my own.
I grasped it heartily,--who could have helped it?--and lifting the
little fellow in my arms kissed him affectionately, as one does a
pretty stranger child. This seemed to gratify him rather than to
satisfy him; he nestled in my neck, but moved restlessly, slipping to
the ground, and back again into my arms; jabbering incoherently and
pleasantly; seeming to be diverted rather than comforted; ready to
stay, but alert to go; in short, behaving like a baby on a visit.
After awhile the child adjusted himself to the situation; grew quiet,
and clung to me; and at last, putting both his arms about my neck, he
gave the long, sweet sigh of healthy infant weariness, and babbling
something to the general effect that Boy was tired, he dropped into a
sound and happy sleep.
Here, indeed, was a situation! It drew from me the first smile which
had crossed my lips since I had died. What, pray, was I, who seemed to
be of no consequence whatever in this amazing country, and who had more
than I knew how to do in looking after myself, under its mysterious
conditions,--what was I to do with the spirit-baby gone to sleep upon
my neck?
"I must go and find the Orphan Asylum," I 'thought; "doubtless they
have them in this extraordinary civilization. I must take the little
fellow to some women as soon as possible." At this juncture, my friend
Mrs. Faith appeared, making a mock of being out of breath, and laughing
heartily.
"He ran away from me," she merrily explained. "I had the care of him,
and he ran on; he came straight to you. I couldn't hold him. What a
comfort he will be to you!... Why, Doctor! Do you mean to say you
don't know who the child _is_?"
"It seems to me," she added, with a mother's sublime superiority, "_I_
should know my own baby! If I were so fortunate as to find one
here!--How much less you know," she proceeded naively, "than I used to
think you did!"
"Did the child _die_?" I asked, trembling so that I had to put the
little fellow down lest he should fall from my startled arms. "Did
something really ail him that night when his mother--that miserable
night?"
"The child died," she answered gravely. "Dear little Boy! Take him up
again, Doctor. Don't you see? He is uneasy unless you hold him fast."
I took Boy up; I held him close; I kissed him, and I clung to him, and
melted into unintelligible cries above him, never minding Mrs. Faith,
for I quite forgot her.
But what I felt was for my child's poor mother, and all my thought was
for her, and my heart broke for her, that she should be so bereft.
"I should like to know if you suppose for one minute that she wouldn't
_rather_ you would have the little fellow, if he is the least bit of
comfort to you in the world?"
Mrs. Faith said this; she spoke with a kind of lofty, feminine scorn.
"Why, Helen _loves_ you!" she said, superbly.