My father had been absent from home a great deal, taking journeys with
whose object he did not acquaint me. I myself had not visited the earth
for some time; I cannot say how long. I do not find it possible to
divide heavenly time by an earthly calendar, and cannot even decide how
much of an interval, by human estimates, had been indeed covered by my
residence in the Happy Country, as described upon these pages.
My duties had called me in other directions, and I had been exceedingly
busy. My father sometimes spoke of our dear hearts at home, and reported
them as all well; but he was not communicative about them. I observed
that he took more pains than usual, or I should say more pleasure than
usual, in the little domestic cares of our heavenly home. Never had it
been in more perfect condition. The garden and the grounds were looking
exquisitely. All the trifling comforts or ornaments of the house were to
his mind. We talked of them much, and wandered about in our leisure
moments, altering or approving details. I did my best to make him happy,
but my own heart told me how lonely he must be despite me. We talked
less of her coming than we used to do. I felt that he had accepted the
separation with the unquestioning spirit which one gains so deeply in
Heaven; and that he was content, as one who trusted, still to wait.
One evening, I came home slowly and alone. My father had been away for
some days. I had been passing several hours with some friends, who, with
myself, had been greatly interested in an event of public importance. A
messenger was needed to carry certain tidings to a great astronomer,
known to us of old on earth, who was at that time busied in research in
a distant planet. It was a desirable embassy, and many sought the
opportunity for travel and culture which it gave. After some delay in
the appointment, it was given to a person but just arrived from below:
a woman not two days dead. This surprised me till I had inquired into
the circumstances, when I learned that the new-comer had been on earth
an extreme sufferer, bed-ridden for forty years. Much of this time she
had been unable even to look out of doors. The airs of Heaven had been
shut from her darkened chamber. For years she had not been able to
sustain conversation with her own friends, except on rare occasions.
Possessed of a fine mind, she had been unable to read, or even to bear
the human voice in reading. Acute pain had tortured her days.
Sleeplessness had made horror of her nights. She was poor. She was
dependent. She was of a refined organization. She was of a high spirit,
and of energetic temperament. Medical science, holding out no cure,
assured her that she might live to old age. She lived. When she was
seventy-six years old, death remembered her. This woman had sometimes
been inquired of, touching her faith in that Mystery which we call God.
I was told that she gave but one answer; beyond this, revealing no more
of experience than the grave itself, to which, more than to any other
simile, her life could be likened.
“Though He slay me,” she said, “I will trust.”
“But, do you never doubt?”
“I _will_ trust.”
To this rare spirit, set free at last and re-embodied, the commission of
which I have spoken was delegated; no one in all the city grudged her
its coveted advantages. A mighty shout rose in the public ways when the
selection was made known. I should have thought she might become
delirious with the sudden access of her freedom, but it was said that
she received her fortune quietly, and, slipping out of sight, was away
upon her errand before we saw her face.
The incident struck me as a most impressive one, and I was occupied with
it, as I walked home thoughtfully. Indeed, I was so absorbed that I went
with my eyes cast down, and scarcely noticed when I had reached our own
home. I did not glance at the house, but continued my way up the
winding walk between the trees, still drowned in my reverie.
It was a most peaceful evening. I felt about me the fine light at which
I did not look; that evening glow was one of the new colors,--one of the
heavenly colors that I find it impossible to depict. The dog came to
meet me as usual; he seemed keenly excited, and would have hurried me
into the house. I patted him absently as I strolled on.
Entering the house with a little of the sense of loss which, even in the
Happy World, accompanies the absence of those we love, and wondering
when my father would be once more with me, I was startled at hearing his
voice--no, voices; there were two; they came from an upper chamber, and
the silent house echoed gently with their subdued words.
I stood for a moment listening below; I felt the color flash out of my
face; my heart stood still. I took a step or two
forward--hesitated--advanced with something like fear. The dog pushed
before me, and urged me to follow. After a moment’s thought I did so,
resolutely.
The doors stood open everywhere, and the evening air blew in with a
strong and wholesome force. No one had heard me. Guided by the voices of
the unseen speakers I hurried on, across the hall, through my own room,
and into that sacred spot I have spoken of, wherein for so many solitary
years my dear father had made ready for her coming who was the joy of
his joy, in Heaven, as she had been on earth.
For that instant, I saw all the familiar details of the room in a blur
of light. It was as if a sea of glory filled the place. Across it, out
beyond the window, on the balcony which overlooked the hill-country and
the sea, stood my father and my mother, hand in hand.
She did not hear me, even yet. They were talking quietly, and were
absorbed. Uncertain what to do, I might even have turned and left them
undisturbed, so sacred seemed that hour of theirs to me; so separate in
all the range of experience in either world, or any life. But her heart
warned her, and she stirred, and so saw me--my dear mother--come to us,
at last.
Oh, what arms can gather like a mother’s, whether in earth or Heaven?
Whose else could be those brooding touches, those raining tears, those
half-inarticulate maternal words? And for her, too, the bitterness is
passed, the blessedness begun. Oh, my dear mother! My dear mother! I
thank God I was the child appointed to give you welcome--thus....
* * * * *
“And how is it with Tom,--poor Tom!”
“He has grown such a fine fellow; you cannot think. I leaned upon him.
He was the comfort of my old age.”
“Poor Tom!”
“And promises to make such a man, dear! A good boy. No bad habits, yet.
Your father is so pleased that he makes a scholar.”
“Dear Tom! And Alice?”
“It was hard to leave Alice. But she is young. Life is before her. God
is good.”
“And you, my dearest, was it hard for you at the last? Was it a long
sickness? Who took care of you? Mother! did you suffer _much_?”
“Dear, I never suffered any. I had a sudden stroke I think. I was
sitting by the fire with the children. It was vacation and Tom was at
home. They were all at home. I started to cross the room, and it grew
dark. I did not know that I was dead till I found I was standing there
upon the balcony, in your father’s arms.”
“I had to tell her what had happened. She wouldn’t believe me at the
first.”
“Were you with her all the time below?”
“All the time; for days before the end.”
“And you brought her here yourself, easily?”
“All the way, myself. She slept like a baby, and wakened--as she says.”