And yet so subtle is the connection in the eternal life between the
soul’s best moments and the Source of them, that I felt unready for my
joy until it had His blessing whose Love was the sun of all love, and
whose approval was sweeter than all happiness.
Now, it was a part of that beautiful order of Heaven, which we ceased to
call accident, that while I had this wish upon my lips, we saw Him
coming to us, where we still stood alone together in the open field.
We did not hasten to meet Him, but remained as we were until He reached
our side; and then we sank upon our knees before Him, silently. God
knows what gain we had for the life that we had lost below. The pure
eyes of the Master sought us with a benignity from which we thanked the
Infinite Mercy that our own had not need to droop ashamed. What weak,
earthly comfort could have been worth the loss of a moment such as this?
He blesses us. With His sacred hands He blesses us, and by His blessing
lifts our human love into so divine a thing that this seems the only
life in which it could have breathed.
* * * * *
By-and-by, when our Lord has left us, we join hands like children, and
walk quietly through the dazzling air, across the field, and up the
hill, and up the road, and home. I seek my mother, trembling, and clasp
her, sinking on my knees, until I hide my face upon her lap. Her hands
stray across my hair and cheek.
“What is the matter, Mary?--_dear_ Mary!”
“Oh, Mother, I have Heaven in my heart at last!”
“Tell me all about it, my poor child. Hush! There, there! my dear!”
“_Your poor child?_ ... Mother! What _can_ you mean?”--
* * * * *
What can she mean, indeed? I turn and gaze into her eyes. My face was
hidden in her lap. Her hands stray across my hair and cheek.
“_What is the matter, Mary?--dear Mary!_”
“_Oh, Mother, I have Heaven in my heart at last!_”
“_Tell me all about it, my poor child. Hush! There, there! my dear!_”
“_Your poor child? Mother!_ _What_ CAN _this mean_?”
* * * * *
She broods and blesses me, she calms and gathers me. With a mighty cry,
I fling myself against her heart, and sob my soul out, there.
“You are better, child,” she says. “Be quiet. You will live.”
Upon the edge of the sick-bed, sitting strained and weary, she leans to
comfort me. The night-lamp burns dimly on the floor behind the door. The
great red chair stands with my white woollen wrapper thrown across the
arm. In the window the magenta geranium droops freezing. Mignonette is
on the table, and its breath pervades the air. Upon the wall, the cross,
the Christ, and the picture of my father look down.
The doctor is in the room; I hear him say that he shall change the
medicine, and some one, I do not notice who, whispers that it is thirty
hours since the stupor, from which I have aroused, began. Alice comes
in, and Tom, I see, has taken Mother’s place, and holds me--dear
Tom!--and asks me if I suffer, and why I look so disappointed.
Without, in the frosty morning, the factory-bells are calling the poor
girls to their work. The shutter is ajar, and through the crack I see
the winter day dawn on the world.
* * * * *