In my distress I turned and would have fled, which way I knew not. I was
swept up like a weed on a surge of self-reproach and longing. What was
eternal life if she had found out that I was dead? What were the
splendors of Paradise, if she missed me? It was made evident to me that
my father was gratified at the turn my impulses had taken, but he
intimated that it might not be possible to follow them, and that this
was a matter which must be investigated before acting. This surprised
me, and I inquired of him eagerly--yet, I think not passionately, not
angrily, as I should once have done at the thwarting of such a wish as
that--what he meant by the doubt he raised.
“It is not always permitted,” he said gravely. “We cannot return when we
would. We go upon these errands when it is Willed. I will go and learn
what the Will may be for you touching this matter. Stay here and wait
for me.”
Before I could speak, he had departed swiftly, with the great and glad
motion of those who go upon sure business in this happy place; as if he
himself, at least, obeyed unseen directions, and obeyed them with his
whole being. To me, so lately from a lower life, and still so choked
with its errors, this loving obedience of the soul to a great central
Force which I felt on every hand, but comprehended not, as yet, affected
me like the discovery of a truth in science. It was as if I had found a
new law of gravitation, to be mastered only by infinite attention. I
fell to thinking more quietly after my father had left me alone. There
came a subsidence to my tempestuous impulse, which astonished myself. I
felt myself drawn and shaped, even like a wave by the tide, by something
mightier far than my own wish. But there was this about the state of
feeling into which I had come: that which controlled me was not only
greater, it was dearer than my desire. Already a calmness conquered my
storm. Already my heart awaited, without outburst or out-thrust, the
expression of that other desire which should decide my fate in this most
precious matter. All the old rebellion was gone, even as the protest of
a woman goes on earth before the progress of a mighty love. I no longer
argued and explained. I did not require or insist. Was it possible that
I did not even doubt? The mysterious, celestial law of gravitation
grappled me. I could no more presume to understand it than I could
withstand it.
I had not been what is called a submissive person. All my life,
obedience had torn me in twain. Below, it had cost me all I had to give,
to cultivate what believers called trust in God.
I had indeed tried, in a desperate and faulty fashion, but I had often
been bitterly ashamed at the best result which I could achieve, feeling
that I scarcely deserved to count myself among His children, or to call
myself by the Name which represented the absolute obedience of the
strongest nature that human history had known. Always, under all, I had
doubted whether I accepted God’s will because I wanted to, so much as
because I had to. This fear had given me much pain, but being of an
active temperament, far, perhaps too far, removed from mysticism, I had
gone on to the next fight, or the next duty, without settling my
difficulties; and so like others of my sort, battled along through life,
as best or as worst I might. I had always hurried more than I had grown.
To be sure, I was not altogether to blame for this, since circumstances
had driven me fast, and I had yielded to them not always for my own
sake; but clearly, it may be as much of a misfortune to be too busy, as
to be idle; and one whose subtlest effects are latest perceived. I could
now understand it to be reasonable, that if I had taken more time on
earth to cultivate myself for the conditions of Heaven, I might have had
a different experience at the outset of this life, in which one was
never in a hurry.
My father returned from his somewhat protracted absence, while I was
thinking of these things thus quietly. My calmer mood went out to meet
his face, from which I saw at once what was the result of his errand,
and so a gentle process prepared me for my disappointment when he said
that it was not Willed that I should go to her at this immediate time.
He advised me to rest awhile before taking the journey, and to seek this
rest at once. No reasons were given for this command; yet strangely, I
felt it to be the most reasonable thing in the world.
No; blessedly no! I did not argue, or protest, I did not dash out my
wild wish, I did not ask or answer anything--how wonderful!
Had I needed proof any longer that I was dead and in Heaven, this
marvelous adjustment of my will to that other would in itself have told
me what and where I was.
I cannot say that this process took place without effort. I found a
certain magnificent effort in it, like that involved in the free use of
my muscles; but it took place without pain. I did indeed ask,--
“Will it be long?”
“Not long.”
“That is kind in Him!” I remember saying, as we moved away. For now, I
found that I thought first rather of what He gave than of what He
denied. It seemed to me that I had acquired a new instinct. My being was
larger by the acquisition of a fresh power. I felt a little as I used to
do below, when I had conquered a new language.
I had met, and by his loving mercy I had mastered, my first trial in the
eternal life. This was to be remembered. It was like the shifting of a
plate upon a camera.
More wearied than I had thought by the effort, I was glad to sink down
beneath the trees in a nook my father showed me, and yield to the
drowsiness that stole upon me after the great excitement of the day. It
was not yet dark, but I was indeed tired. A singular subsidence, not
like our twilight, but still reminding one of it, had fallen upon the
vivid color of the air. No one was passing; the spot was secluded; my
father bade me farewell for the present, saying that he should return
again; and I was left alone.
The grass was softer than eider of the lower world; and lighter than
snow-flakes, the leaves that fell from low-hanging boughs about me.
Distantly, I heard moving water; and more near, sleepy birds. More
distant yet, I caught, and lost, and caught again, fragments of
orchestral music. I felt infinite security. I had the blessedness of
weariness that knew it could not miss of sleep. Dreams stole upon me
with motion and touch so exquisite that I thought: “Sleep itself is a
new joy; what we had below was only a hint of the real thing,” as I sank
into deep and deeper rest.
Do not think that I forgot my love and longing to be elsewhere. I think
the wish to see her and to comfort her grew clearer every moment. But
stronger still, like a comrade marching beside it, I felt the pacing of
that great desire which had become dearer than my own.