“Like father?”

“In some respects.”

“I remember,” she said at last. “I was trying to recollect the word

and now I have done so. No, he isn’t a general. I don’t think he has

ever led an army. When we go to the city father will take you to see

him, for he is at home now.”

“Has he a house there?”

“He shares one with some friends, for he is not married yet. Sometimes

when people are dying on the earth he goes there and makes their

death-bed. He makes them very gently, so that the spiritual pain is

eased. But those hideous demons that gather round such scenes fasten

themselves upon his arms and hands, and hinder him by bites and

clinging hard, so that he oftentimes can scarcely do his work.”

“But where is the guardian angel of the dying man?”

“He has none,” she answered sadly. “He may have driven him off, or

turned from him as they so often do. And those are the kind of cases

Philemon goes to help, because he has studied them. It is no good

trying to help them whilst they live, but our people are bound to keep

the record of their works just as they do in hell, and it is from this

record that he studies. Then when he has made the bed so miraculously

that no slavish hand can touch it he waits alone, unguarded, for by

this the demons have fled away in terror. At last the great enemy

comes.”

“Is that death?”

“It is that great enemy who has led them all their lives by narrow

zig-zag paths, placing bright bubbles and magic music in their path

till the night falls.”

“And what of Philemon, then?”

“He still stands still, and when the other finds he has not gone he

turns to look at him, and asks him why he stays. Then he shows him

the sign by which he has a right to stay there to the end; and in the

presence of the Angel of Death he draws up his prescription.”

“But what is the use of a prescription for a man about to die?”

“Well, it means he is not incurable. They carry the prescription out in

hell and he is remedied.”

“And is he the only such spirit you have in heaven?”

“No. But the gift is rare, and only those who have the power can make

or use the prescription. If you make the least mistake they won’t carry

out your prescription, but tear it up and laugh at it and then there is

no help for the dying.”

“And does this gift of making prescriptions spring from making beds?”

“Yes. To make the bed of a dead man is better than to make a golden

coffin. It means that he will rise again.”

For some time we strolled on quietly, till down the avenue we saw

Moonbeam coming towards us.

She was walking slowly and did not notice us in the distance.

“Let us hide,” suggested Sunbeam.

“No,” said I. “Remember my advancing years. Moreover, I am thinking if

we do not make haste and deliver your message we shall be late back.”

So we walked a little quicker till we came up to her.

She was taller than Sunbeam, with a face whose greatest beauty was its

sweetness. Yet with this there was mingled a sadness and seriousness I

had never seen in Sunbeam, who was all lightness and love and tender

feeling and little else, though that was heaven’s best.

Moonbeam shook hands with a quiet dignity and made no attempt to ask

for or offer kisses, yet there was something very winning and frank

about her, which made the contrast all the more delightful, because

of a certain similarity. I thought on meeting they would have had so

much to say that I should have become an unnecessary accompaniment to

Sunbeam’s walk, but that was not so.

They walked along one on each side of me, as quietly and demurely as

possible, till at last I asked Sunbeam why she was so silent.

“It’s my advancing years,” she said. “I feel as if the exertion to talk

would be as tiring as to hide.”

“Why are you talking in such an old-fashioned way?” demanded Moonbeam,

laughing.

“It’s my company manners. Mother says I must always accommodate myself

to the society I’m in.”

And after that there was no more quietness.

CHAPTER V

That afternoon we went to the city and Moonbeam with us.

There is no doubt we made a very happy party, and the journey, though

long as regards distance, was very quickly accomplished in a light

and comfortable vehicle borne by six horses swift as the wind, and

beautiful as perfect strength and freedom make them.

Mountains and valleys, level roads and shining rivers, we crossed and

passed. In itself this drive was exhilarating, and the beauty of the

scenes through which we journeyed was unrivalled.

When we first came in sight of the city it was from the brow of a steep

hill our horses had climbed with perfect ease and freshness. The sun

was setting as we came there, and what is sunset but the beauty of

variety to those whose sun can never set?

How magnificent it was only the eye of pure thought can ever truly see,

yet with almost marvellous exactness it resembled hell.

When we came to the city twilight had fallen, and cheerful lights shone

from each curtained window.

A few of their more intimate friends were there to greet us at the

door, and among the number Philemon, Moonbeam’s brother.

Now, had Philemon lived on this earth he would have been called a

little shrivel of a fellow, for he was no higher than five feet, and

extremely thin. But there was about him the nameless strength and

beauty which marked them all.

“That’s Philemon,” said Sunbeam to me as Moonbeam was kissing him, and

to see their apparent delight at thus unexpectedly meeting was very

pleasing. “Come along, let us go to them.” So we went.

“Hullo, Sunbeam, you’re not an inch taller since I saw you last. Follow

my advice and keep little, and when you’re old enough I’ll marry you.”

“You see,” he explained, turning to me, “it’s hard on a fellow when his

wife is taller than he is himself. Now, my ambition is to marry someone

exactly six inches smaller than myself, but so far I have found nobody.”

“Your ambition is a very lofty one,” I put in.

“And like all such, impossible of accomplishment,” he sighed.

“This is my brother Philemon,” said Moonbeam.

“This is my brother Genius,” said Sunbeam.

“I’ve been telling him all about you,” she went on confidentially. “How

good you are at making beds.”

“Making beds!” he cried. “Why don’t you use longer words? You should

call me a celebrated physician, then people would respect me.”

“Well, I was only repeating what mother said.”

“She told you that a long time ago. It’s time you were advancing.

Making beds! Well, I never thought you would have given me away like

that, Sunbeam.”

She only laughed, as did Moonbeam, and they stood with their arms round

each other lovingly.

“Well, now, tell me something of Genius that is plebeian and paltry. I

feel such an undeniable jealousy rising within me that I shall not be

able to battle with it long,” observed Philemon.

“I’ve only known him since yesterday, so I can’t tell you anything,”

returned Sunbeam.

“You said he was your brother.”

“He’s my brother-in-law.”

“Vestasian?” said Philemon, and stepped back so quickly, and cast

such a sharp, piercing eye on me, that I wondered, and then felt some

explanation might be needed.

“It is a purely imaginary relationship,” I remarked. “I am neither

Sunbeam’s brother nor her brother-in-law, neither am I Vestasian.”

“I did not catch your name,” he hinted.

“They call me Genius.”

“But what do you call yourself?”

“I don’t know that I ever gave two serious thoughts to it.”

“Indeed!” he exclaimed, and then moved away, taking Sunbeam and

Moonbeam along with him. The antics of youth had evidently developed

into the peculiarity of years, because during the remainder of the

evening he watched me most attentively and persistently.

A little later I found him in earnest conversation with Virginius, in

which he seemed to be trying to insist upon Virginius seeing things

in the same light as himself, but the latter was listening with

incredulous amusement, and left him laughing.

That night after dinner, when he and I were alone together, he began,—

“Philemon notices a strong resemblance between you and Vestasian—so

strong that he persists in saying you are he.”

“Oh, Lord!” I groaned.

“What did you say?”

“I said ‘Oh, Lord!’ But by that I meant to convey the impression that

it is very distasteful to be so mistaken. Surely in heaven there is

peace from muddle.”

“I don’t know. You began it, so doubtless it may continue.”

“But I never let my ambition soar so high as to touch him. Moreover,

till very recently I had never seen him.”

“Well,” said Virginius, “I don’t know, now that it has been mentioned

to me, but that I can detect a likeness.”

“So can I detect one between you and Plucritus.”

He laughed. “Have a smoke,” he suggested, “You will find that pleasure

counteracts irritation.”

After a pause he continued,—

“Did you see much of Vestasian whilst in hell?”

“Very little, till near the end.”

“And what was your opinion of him?”

“At the time I distrusted, yet liked him. Looking backward I regret I

saw so little of him.”

“He took the trouble to be agreeable, then?”

“I don’t know that he put himself to any trouble. But he was so very

fascinating that for once I forgot my own individuality in listening to

his experience of life.”

“He spoke of himself?”

“Oh, yes, always. I never knew him refer much to any other—except his

wife. He rarely mentioned the earth; he told me he did not find it

interesting and rarely went there.”

“He found it interesting enough to go there and stir up feud sufficient

for centuries, and having done that, tired of the game and tired of the

plaything, he retired to hell.”

“Do you know him well?”

“In the long ages back, before the earth was peopled, we were friends.

Since then,” and Virginius smiled, “he has become my son-in-law.”

“Yet now you are no longer friends.”

“On all points but one we would be friendly. Our bone of contention is

the earth and planets peopled like it.”

“I did not know that his wife was one of your daughters.”

“She is my eldest daughter—Purity—the loveliest flower that even

heaven ever grew. The gentlest and most innocent child that ever

gladdened parents’ heart.”

He spoke of her with love and quiet pride, with no trace of the

bitterness and sadness I had expected.

I looked at him.

“Could this capture not have been prevented? Was it not a very

dangerous risk to let so young a creature out alone?”

He shook his head.

“Vestasian did not tell you all the story then? My daughter went by

design and counsel of all in Heaven. She alone was free from anxiety or

care, for she was innocent. But,” he continued, “I will tell you more

of this another time. Let us walk out on the terrace and view the city.”

The beauty of a perfect night had invested all things. Clustering

roses with delicious scent twined in rich trailing loveliness round

the marble balustrade; and where the steps wound down about a pillar,

lilies sprang up from base to cornice, pure and beautiful and large.

We came into the street. It was scarcely such a one as we know. From

open windows floated the sound of music soft and far away. Fountains

were still playing, and the water swayed slightly in the passing

breeze. Here and there among the wild luxuriant flowers, where no weeds

grew, a swift form was moving, surrounded by that faint, pure light

that needs no sun to show the path they tread. Overhead, arches like

faint rainbows, tingling with silvery light, spanned each street across

the whole vast city.

Virginius led me on through many streets till we came to a simple

bridge that crossed the river. In the middle of the bridge we stood and

looked both down and up the river.

Its waters sparkled, and the cheerful ripple of the tiny waves, as they

dashed against the pillars below, made such merry music that one almost

thought to hear the fairy voices burst into some articulate song. There

was no gurgle here, no deep, alluring blackness, no sad and heavy

silence that drew the sad and heavy spirit down to its sadder depths.

“You need no wine-cellars here,” said I. “This water would intoxicate

the strongest spirit, and give such happiness and delight that those on

earth, once having and then missing it, would pine and die for lack of

it.”

“I think not,” Virginius dissented. “It is the great medicine, the

simple, harmless cure, whose effect is so sure that it lasts through

life, even though it be but in the memory.”

* * * * *

_Passage omitted_

* * * * *

“One does not need to taste it once a week or once a month, as the case

may be, its effects on the earth will last a lifetime. And here in

heaven it becomes a pleasant, invigorating, everyday drink, surrounded

by no false evaporation of mystery.”

“I have often wondered what Christ’s object was in instituting the Last

Supper.”

“Christ or Jesus?”

“You recognise them as separate?”

“Yes,” he answered. “But the stronger power enveloped the lesser, so

that the frailty of the simple man was hidden by the working of an

untamable spirit, though they mingled.”

Then he took up the thread of our previous conversation.

“You asked as to His object in instituting His Last Supper. I think

it was because He did not want to be forgotten. He simply wished to

be remembered at His disciples’ meal times, not as a damper at the

feast but as a loving friend, who had often sat with them before and

shared the simple meal. He was hospitable and sociable, and even in

His last meal showed His extreme simplicity. He said ‘Remember Me at

meal times,’ and for my own part I think many tired folk get more of

His spirit out of a cup of tea or milk or other refreshment that will

invigorate them than ever they get from a formal cup of wine passed

automatically from hand to hand.”

Virginius spoke softly, with a kind of sympathetic love, as if he

understood the man of whom he spoke.

“But,” he continued, “on the other hand, was Christ, the Master Spirit

of that age and others, showing the Spiritual Sacrifice by the bodily

death this poor unerring carpenter underwent?”

Virginius stretched his arms over the wooden rail and leant against the

bridge.

“Jesus, the Man, was the illustration in the object lesson of Christ

the Teacher, and His Life was the picture that explained.”

“But very little of His life is known.”

Virginius laughed.

“The teacher became so worked up on His pet subject that He forgot

His illustrations and pictures till too late. But He was a marvellous

teacher for all that, and when He was gone the pupils turned to look

at the pictures and the illustrations He had left, and they made a

few slight mistakes in following them out, and some few pages He had

carried along with Him into Silence.”

“Then you give two distinct spirits to the one man.”

“I will explain it later. What do you think of Heaven?”

“I cannot say. I thought once it was possible to express happiness and

appreciation in words, but words fail me. I would have all feel what I

myself have here experienced, for I could never explain it to the full,

words are but idle repetition.”

“If you were put to it, do you not think you could write some

explanation?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t think so. The task would be too difficult and delicate. Every

note would fall flat, I can imagine nothing more hopeless.”

He laughed.

“Could you describe hell?”

“No. That would be as hopeless.”

“And you seem to have no power to describe the earth.”

“I am very profitless. Had you not had compassion I cannot tell what

would have become of me.”

After that we went back again to the house. Our mother met us on the

terrace, where she was walking slowly back and forwards waiting. Soon

after we all retired for the night, but as we passed the room where

Sunbeam and Moonbeam were sleeping she opened the door and went in.

They were fast asleep, and Sunbeam’s head was resting sweetly on the

other’s shoulder. They looked most lovely lying thus, yet as our mother

stopped to kiss them she was by far the loveliest of the three. The

purest, rosiest light of love shone round her, giving her a radiant,

heavenly loveliness full of wisdom and purity and strength. They looked

like beautiful, delicate-tinted shadows of a future substance; she like

a glorious reality radiating youth and freshness with every breath and

movement.

With eyes shining in an ecstasy of love she turned to Virginius and put

a hand on either shoulder, and drew him towards her, and kissed him too.

That night I slept, happy and peaceful. But one night was only as the

others were, for never here did one lie down to sleep when the joyous

day was over but one felt tired without being weary, sleepy without

fatigue.

CHAPTER VI

The next morning I awoke with the busy sounds of life all round me.

Through the open window penetrated the sound of eager voices, and

of people hurrying to and fro. Already the sun was shining. A group

of school boys was passing, carrying books, laughing and talking

incessantly as they went. There went a soldier in bright, dazzling

armour, here a civilian, simply clad, yet no athlete ever walked with a

freer, easier step than he.

There went Philemon, his head bent in deep thought, his hands clasped

behind him holding a pocket-book.

From another direction came a group of maidens. No need to say that

they were lovely, nothing lived here unless it was so, yet it must

have been the beauty of goodness, as apart from this something which

transfigured them they were by no means built up from any regularity of

mould.

A little later a band of musicians appeared below the windows and

began to play. Their music was as bright as the morning sun, and I saw

Sunbeam and Moonbeam on the terrace dancing gaily to it.

Thus to be left out of everything suited me no more than it would most

people. Heaven is a place that makes one feel sociable, so I made what

haste I could to get downstairs.

There I found our mother very busy preparing breakfast; but she

was never busy long, she had the knack of preparing things quickly.

Virginius was helping her with what little help she needed, and when

all was in readiness he went to the window and called the children.

“Genius,” said he at breakfast, “I am going to pay a few calls this

morning. Will you come with me?”

“Most willingly.”

“If I take you to see Jesus of Nazareth, you will not be too grieved if

you find Him in simple dress and minus a throne.”

“No,” I rejoined. “The grandeur of a throne has long ceased to interest

me. If I may be allowed to see Him in the simplicity which marked Him

when on earth I shall count myself honoured indeed.”

“Are we to go too?” asked Sunbeam.

“No. We will go later in the day,” replied our mother.

“We are going for afternoon tea,” said Moonbeam. “That’s better than

going in the morning when all the work is being done.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Sunbeam, wisely. “I don’t like paying morning

calls, except to the butterflies and birds. It looks as if you’ve

mistaken the time.”

When breakfast was over Virginius and I went through the city.

Occasionally we met someone with whom my companion was well acquainted,

and with these we stayed some little time. But not for long, for the

general air of the place was work and business, such as left little

time for anything beside.

At last we came to a street somewhat quieter than those down which

we had been walking, and into this Virginius turned. It was cool

and shaded, and on the ground shadows and golden light played from

the trees and sun. A low, long house built in white stone lay in a

brilliant, flowery garden. Behind rose the hills clothed with dark

trees, and stretching away into the distance till their white peaks

seemed to shine and touch the sun rays that glinted down to them.

Opposite the house, divided from it by the road down which we passed,

was another. It was built like some old chateau, but it had wide-open

windows. In front stretched a lake on which birds were swimming, and

the croak of an occasional frog was heard.

“You keep those animals here?” I queried.

Virginius smiled.

“Yes,” he answered. “We keep everything that has a mind to come to us.

Most of those have been under the vivisectionist’s knife. We are more

merciful than he, and we count the suffering and death as a sacrifice

for humanity.

“I don’t think anyone would grudge them their happiness, and they are

very grateful for this new home.”

“Heaven is a wonderful place,” I said.

“Yes, it is about as wonderful as Hell.”

* * * * *

_Several pages here omitted_

* * * * *

[EDITOR’S NOTE.—Genius is supposed to visit the abode of

Jesus, whom he finds on a bed of sickness, lying wounded after a

recent conflict with the Powers of Darkness. He is being tended by

Philemon, the Heavenly Physician. Mary, whom the author depicts as the

spiritual wife of Jesus, is also giving loving care to her Husband. It

should be here noted that the author, in a letter to her publisher,

states that the wife of Jesus is symbolical of the Church. To quote

her own words, “They say the Bride of Jesus is the Church.” But Miss

Allonby preferred to use the word “wife” instead of “bride,” for the

wife “has gone through all the trials of true love, and wives should

be loyal helpers.”]

* * * * *

The day was spent in sweet simplicity and pleasure, with the merriest,

gayest party one might wish to have.

Philemon, who at first had subjected me to great scrutiny and guarded

conversation, became more friendly as the day advanced. It was

impossible not to like and yet admire him. The peculiarity of his face

and manner were as attractive as beauty and grace would have been. It

is one of the grand perfections of Heaven that mere beauty of symmetry

is accounted nothing; such sameness would breed nothing but dulness, a

thing unknown either to intellect or feeling.

Our hostess remained with us till lunch was over, and then she left us

to be with her husband when he woke.

Virginius, with Sunbeam and Moonbeam, wandered off, and later I saw

them climbing up the zig-zag path that led from the garden behind

toward the forest. That forest was a marvellous place, for since then I

have been in it. It contains the pictures of marvellous adventures and

mysterious scenes painted from the world’s pale fairyland. Glistening

jewels shine upon its grass blades and rich fruits hang from its

shading boughs. They say that as one penetrates further into it the

scenes of earth all vanish, and there appear those of other spheres,

and sounds from outer space. To this depth I have never pierced; one

must be led by a master spirit, and it comes in the course of the

higher education. It is explored shortly before the Long Journey

begins, and till then would be nothing but useless and inquisitive

sightseeing.

Saint Ursula (I know not why I call her Saint, but that it be that

someone on the earth be led to misconstrue my meaning, and fail to

understand the silent, pure respect that lives when titles all are

turned to dust and ashes in the heart) went with Philemon to examine

the properties of a curious element he had detected in the atmosphere

of a far-distant sphere of hell.

I, left alone, sat down in the porch of that lovely home, thinking of

the past events of Hell and Heaven, comparing them and finding them

alike in everything but their effects upon myself. From this I fell

to thinking of those in whose house I now was sitting. Upstairs lay

One whom the world persisted in placing on a throne with an imperial

crown: With a feeling of discomfort, which at another time would have

amused me by its intensity, I began to wonder if the world would again

reject Him if it saw Him lying here, one among many, and having that

greatest of all weaknesses, a wife. I determined that this was a secret

which should never cross my lips, were I ever free to repeat it, and

then I laughed; deception and smuggling up of truth were alike here

impossible. From that my mind passed on to this pure spirit woman,

whose glorious crown of hair and tender eyes, lit up at times with

mirth and overflowing spirits, set my mind wondering as to her past.

There was such unaffected good-will in her that skipped at times beyond

restraint and left tears in her eyes and laughter on her lips, that one

tried to fathom the soul beneath the spirit and was stopped by the pure

thin robe of simplicity that covered all.

So for long I sat and thought, with no interruption, but amid a golden

silence prevailing, and then a soft rustle stirred behind me, and a

hand was placed on either shoulder.

“You have done just as I wished; I wanted you to stay behind. No, do

not rise, I will sit here.”

So saying she came forward and sat on the side seat of the porch, with

the flowers twining in soft clusters from above. She clasped her knees

with her hands.

“My husband is up,” she said. “He has some business to attend to, and

then will join us.”

“Has He been ill long?”

“Yes. But He had only been home very shortly. No matter how great the

suffering may be, there is no home-coming till the final blow has been

struck.”

She was silent, till at last, plucking a rosebud from the bower, she

added,—

“He has suffered defeat, you know.”

Now were we both silent; I could find no answer. Yet my mind went back

to Him as I had first seen Him in strongest admiration. At last I said,

half to myself,—

“Yet we on earth esteem defeat despicable and chafe under its hard

restrictions.”

“Earth is not Heaven,” she murmured softly. “And He has had the

pleasure of hearing of Virginius’s victory. It has beguiled the hours

of weariness, for I will not attempt to hide from you that in enduring

most we suffer most.”

“And the victory of another has eased His failure,” I concluded.

“Why, yes,” she answered, laughing. “We are all in the same brotherhood

in battle. All working to the same end, all striving to attain the same

result.”

“May I ask your name?” I said at last.

She touched her lips with the rose.

“My name is Mary,” she answered simply.

“There are so many of the name,” I urged, sitting up. “Tell me which

you are.”

Behind the flower her lips had parted in a smile half tremulous, half

sad.

“Memory is sweet to me,” she said. “Yet some would call it bitter. Here

in heaven I am beloved, respected and esteemed, happy and free. On

earth they still remember me as the sinful woman turned to Christ, and

whilst extolling His boundless mercy in receiving such as I they ignore

me altogether.”

A half-malicious merriment shone into her eyes.

“I died of a broken heart. I could not live without Him. It was very

wrong, I know, and showed what poor stuff I was made of, but wherever

I went after that early morning in the garden I saw Him calling

me—always calling. I wasn’t the one that could preach or teach, I

could only feel things, and often in the middle of the night I would

wake and go through all the agony of those dumb dark hours upon the

Cross. It didn’t make much difference to my outward life—no one quite

understood me. They pitied me and wondered at me, just as the people do

to-day; they thought Jesus very wonderful and merciful because He had

made a friend of such as I, and for the most part they were all stern

men and pure women, who loved me simply because they had been taught by

Him. There was no one to lavish things upon, nothing to look forward

to when grey dawn swept the night away, nothing to look back to but

shame and contempt and pain and tragedy of cross and scourging, which

was laughed at and mocked even by those who understood it best. And

I had looked forward so to a glorious earthly kingdom. I had dreamt

each night of the crown and purple robes He was to wear, regardless

of His own sad, warning words. And on that gay entry into Jerusalem

the week before His death my heart had leapt with joy. It seemed as

if the prophecies were coming true. I went home to my own dark room

and laughed and danced for happiness, and on the way I bought some

stones—some imitation jewels—for what I had had gone long since. And

there in my own little room I put them on, and a fine robe which, out

of weakness, I had never parted with, and then I stood and saw the dim

reflection of myself.

“‘When the people crown Him king I shall be there,’ I whispered. ‘I

shall wear my hair loose and decked with jewels, and all will say how

beautiful I am though I have sinned.’ For in that moment of delirious

joy I had forgotten that such as I are better absent. Nay—for the

world gained deeper hold—I saw myself raised to a higher level than

the women who looked down on me—no more stared at and laughed at by

men—respecting and respected, loving and loved in turn. In happiness I

felt a queen, yet He my king was so far removed above me that to call

Him lord were title too small.

“I dreamt—the delirious dream—the burning ball, the shining

will-o’-the-wisp, and it lasted with me—not quite through the week.

“Then the light went out, and it never properly lit again.

“It was a strange week, with a great shadow hanging on the air which no

one noticed. The gay scenes and the excitement of the city attracted

me, a wild longing to mingle once more with the crowd and laugh with

it. I listened to the sermons in the Temple, and then went away alone

and walked through the teeming streets. I heard some speaking in open

admiration of Him, some in more whispered tones; others stood in dark

groups, with scowling faces hidden by sinister smiles. I passed by

these unheeding, for who ever yet with mind pre-occupied noticed word

or look of utter strangers? At night I wandered away to the village

to see our Master. When supper was over it was His custom to go forth

alone. I think the hard life and the strain were beginning to tell on

Him, though His face was more quiet and peaceful even than it used to

be. And then something prompted me to tell Him all that was going on in

the city. I was gay and light-hearted, trying to crush down something

which I could not understand. He listened and was interested, and some

instinct within me made me laugh and talk more gaily than ever before.

“So each night of that last week we walked and talked together, and the

terrible blindness that hung on all was hanging over me. I knew that He

was silent, but I put it down to the silence of fatigue, not gathering

Death. And then on the Thursday I came again, and the time was short,

but only at our parting did I recognize anything about to come. For

then, as if by a sudden impulse, He took my hands and looked at me.

Such a face I had never seen. It seemed as if in one swift lightning

flash it was transformed from peace to agony. I had never seen such

eyes, such look of utter ruin on a face, such haggard, drooping lines.

Every feature was pinched with fearful pain—a child’s face—a man’s

soul—the spirit of a God. They strove together in horrible working

contrast, and that childish weakness which I had never seen before

seemed to me most terrible of all. It seemed as if I saw through the

strength to the utter weakness.

“And then every spark of feeling within me was drawn out to Him. I

don’t know whether as a mother or a woman, since surely both are one.

I felt as if I had it within me to take His weary, racking pain upon

my shoulders, to ease Him of this hellish chain that never kills. And

so, in what to some may seem a terrible presumption, I stretched out

my arms to draw Him to me, for I was young and strong, with a power

born of love. And then, with a cry in which weakness and pain, and

tenderness, and love, were all intermingled, He spoke my name, ‘Mary,’

and came forward with arms outstretched to meet my own. And suddenly

the weakness died from His face, and left only a purity and strength

so deep that I felt that I had been unconsciously a tempter. And with

a voice so kind and grave and clear that it seemed to convey a hidden

meaning which I could not understand, He said, ‘Touch me not. I have

not yet ascended to my Father.’

“Then I went home, but not to sleep. The veil was torn aside. I felt

that something terrible was going to happen, and far on to midnight I

tossed or walked about. They said afterwards that this had been the

hour of His agony, that cruel fight of God with God, in which human

soul is pierced and spirit torn in pain that may well bring sweat

drops to the brow. They had not watched, heavy with sleep, whilst I

within the city sat with eyes like burning coal staring at darkness.

Then in the morning I heard that He was taken, that Judas had betrayed

Him. I don’t think I ever understood the danger, except for one chill

fear that came and went. He was so strong, so sure, so loved of all

the people; but a week ago they had gone out to welcome Him, now they

would rescue Him, their friend and teacher whom they loved. I felt

somehow that this was going to be the climax, the great crisis that

would begin and end the struggle that was to make Him king. And so with

a beating heart and flying step I made to where the crowd was gathered

outside the high priest’s house. There was a silence which I could not

understand, one of those fatal, ominous silences that a spark can send

crashing like a thunder-storm.

“When, later, He came out to go to Pilate I expected to hear the cheers

and cry that still were ringing in my ears. But no sound came save

the dull murmur of disappointment—at nothing, perhaps. I strained

my eyes to catch a sight of His beloved face. It was the same with

a difference—and with the sight of it my empty dream of kingdoms

vanished like air. The agony of the garden made the difference; this

was a dying animal brought to bay—a broken heart holding itself

together with the firmness of heaven to stand the last sad onslaught.

“I saw the proud Pharisees and priests pass by in the procession.

“How I hated them!

“With a hate so black it poisoned all my blood.

“I longed to cry out and raise the crowd against them, that crowd

which, though it laughed, loved me in its own coarse way and hated

them. An iron hand with fingers strong as death clenched at my throat

and strangled every sound. That cry would have altered the day. The

crowd longed for excitement and it found none. It grew sulky, ready to

follow the first leader who came forward on either side, for good or

bad.

“I followed with the stream to Pilate’s house, and after that I

remember nothing but one long, unnatural dream. I couldn’t understand

a thing that happened; the crowd, which I thought would weep and fight

for Him, was suddenly one great howling mass of laughter, ready for any

jest or foolery that might present itself. And a crowd that laughs when

a man is on trial for death is a fearful thing—it can be roused to

any cruelty. Poor things! They were disappointed in Him. And those who

hated Him, and wished to see Him dead, worked on this disappointment by

laughter and derision.

* * * * *

_Passage here omitted_

* * * * *

“But I never saw His face in life after that first strained glance.

I could not have raised my eyes to look upon His weakness and

humiliation. I followed on to Calvary without seeing or hearing

anything, and I kept out of sight as best I could. But when, in the

darkest hour of desolation, He gave that terrible broken-hearted cry I

struggled to my feet from my place behind the Cross and stretched out

my arms toward it. Oh, God! Only those who have been utterly powerless

know its sinking misery. I only fell back again, I was of no use. And

after that what matter? Wherever I went, whatever I did, I saw that

haggard face and heard those words, ‘Mary!’ It rang through the city in

the deadest night, through my veins the whole day long, and then in

accents grave and full of strongest meaning, ‘Touch me not. I am not

yet ascended to my Father.’ In the garden, on the morning that they

call the Resurrection, it came to me again. The sepulchre was empty.

The dead body was stolen by the Jews; but from that world invisible I

heard the song of angels wafting the words again to me, ‘Mary! Touch

me not. I am not yet ascended to my Father.’ It is only a simple story

this of mine, and it is short enough.

“One, too, that has been often told, so perhaps I may have wearied you

with telling it again.”

“And afterwards?”

“Well, afterwards the days grew into one another like one continuous

night. I think I was a coward, because I had no wish to live. When at

last the sun of life was set and the dawn of Heaven broke I left earth

with a happy and contented sigh to enter on the spiritual childhood.

I had lived just long enough to learn to stand alone—for before His

death I had always leant on Him. After that I was as happy as happy

could be, and have been ever since.”

Then for some time there was silence, till at last I said,—

“When I was in Hell I noticed some of the finest workmanship portrayed

the Crucifixion and Agony of Christ. Since coming here I have seen none

of that. It surprised me greatly to see it there.”

She looked at me with a mixture of sadness and wonder.

“Ah!” she explained, “that is one of their jests. The finest comedy I

ever witnessed in Hell was one based upon that human tragedy. I laughed

and cried at the same time, especially when I saw myself there, hoping

against hope, yet most strongly and most innocently, that at the last

minute He would come down from the Cross and stop all the jeering and

the mockery, and drive away the darkness and the cloud.”

“But surely when you saw the Figure hanging there you restrained your

mirth?”

She only laughed.

“You couldn’t see anybody hanging there. Vestasian, who wrote the play,

has too nice perceptions for that. There was a cross there certainly, a

monstrous one, but against it was leaning a brother of his, to signify

that the atom of humanity was hidden by the Godhead. But because it

was very dark the people could not see him, and it was excusable,

because their eyes were not made that way. He was writing notes and

taking what on earth corresponds to snap-shots. He was so silent that

no one understood his presence, though they felt it. When they laughed

they were laughing at him, and he laughed with them all the time,

luring, tempting, spreading his terrible shadow over them and on the

sufferer. In fact, throughout the whole great drama one never saw the

central human figure because of him. It was he who stood on trial at

the sham judgment before Annas and Caiaphas and Pilate and Herod. And

upon these occasions, as a little aside appreciated only by those of

the same understanding as himself, he appeared with crown and sceptre

and robes and jewels of such kingly splendour that the whole court

was more blinded than when under the cross’s shadow. And when Pilate,

tempted by the little mouthing demon on his shoulder, turned with a

half-irritable sneer to ask, ‘What is truth?’ he only shook his head

and smiled so whimsically that one was compelled to laugh, the farce

had reached to such a pitch.”

After a pause I continued:—

“Moreover, I notice you have no churches. I have heard no prayers, seen

neither pulpit nor altar; all these were very evident in the vaults of

Hell.”

She rose and came over to me.

“You try to show a wonder that you do not feel,” she said. “We need

none of these, they are a part of Hell’s bondage and its slavery. To

have the kingdom of Heaven within one is to need no more. It builds its

own temple in sacred silence, and sends the life blood beating into

every vein. It is only on earth, where the real thing is so rarely

found, that the outward show is needed.”

A great silence followed, till at last she drew away the folds of her

white robe and showed me to the inner depths of her pure spirit. There

in the centre of the heart, composed of light and love, I saw the

Figure and the Cross. I could ask no further, and in silence she drew

the soft folds back again.

“It is the link that joins the earth to us, us to the earth,” she

observed at last. “It is born in our children, none yet have come to

us without it. If you care to examine into the structure of your own

spirit you will find it too.”

“Oh, yes. I was fully aware of what was in myself. But I thought I was

somewhat unique.”

She burst out laughing.

“There now, that’s another touch of Nature that makes the whole world

kin. It’s surprising the amount of people who think they are ‘the only

ones.’”

She was still laughing when Jesus joined us. She ran to meet Him,

happy, light-hearted, and beautiful as summer sunlight. Together they

truly made a most wonderful picture of beauty and perfection, though

she was slightly the taller of the two.

He took the seat I offered Him and she arranged it most comfortably

with cushions, still laughing at what she termed my “very common

conceit.”

* * * * *

_A page of MS. here omitted_

* * * * *

Tea being over, we prepared to go; but before going our hostess

conducted all of us upstairs to a room leading from her own. It was

filled with pink and white roses, and a carpet made of silken rose

petals covered the floor. The windows were closed, but inside the room

pure lights of many lovely colours interwoven were playing from wall to

wall, from ceiling to floor. These made sweet music as they touched and

intermingled like harp-strings played by a passing breeze, and around

the bed, made from one giant hollowed pearl, such as the world ne’er

saw nor dreamt of, garlands of roses fell, and lily petals formed the

counterpane. In the centre of all this pure loveliness lay the infant

spirit, with a beauty words cannot paint. The smile of death is frozen

and cold, but here was its facsimile in life and warmth. One hand

lay resting on the counterpane and one upon the pillow, resting the

sleepy head. The soft glow of health flushed either cheek, and dyed the

parting lips; yet over all there was a nameless majesty and rest, a

sleeping spirit begotten of the hard seeds of earth.

Suddenly Saint Ursula moved to where Jesus stood beside the bed and put

her arm through His.

“Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for

of such is the kingdom of Heaven,” she said softly.

“Was this a little child?” I asked at length.

“Oh, no,” replied the mother, kneeling down and pressing the soft arm

to her lips. “This was a full-grown man, whose life had been spent in

one long battle with sin and self. This is not a little human child,

but a spirit child born from the fruit seeds of a lifetime. Soon the

happy childhood of the spirit will begin, for on earth there is no

such thing. It is for the most part nothing but striving there to get

together the essential seeds to form a spirit.”

“You do not devote much time to these young children,” I observed as we

came out together later.

She smiled.

“Not outwardly,” she corrected. “But after they are born they need a

long, long rest, and occasionally at fixed intervals such spiritual

nourishment as we give them from ourselves. And spiritual food is very

delicious,” she added, laughing. “It has nothing to do with the Ten

Commandments nor any of those kinds of things, though they form part

of the soil in which it is grown. But then one doesn’t eat the soil,

though one enjoys the fruit; yet some people on the earth are very

stupid and can’t understand the difference between the two. But the

soil needs a deal of work before it is fit for cultivation, and the

toiler does not reap the food till he is dead.”

So saying, she left me to think, and all the way home I heard

indistinctly Sunbeam’s and Moonbeam’s accents of joy over this new

addition to their friends’ family.

* * * * *

_A chapter here omitted_

* * * * *

CHAPTER VII

The days flew away, all happy and free from care.

One evening, after dinner, Virginius asked me to take a walk with him.

We strolled into the clear night, and through the grounds that lay

behind the house. This brought us to the outskirts of the city, and the

road led up a gentle hillside toward the forest, that bounded this side

of the city for many miles.

He led me into it, and its wonderful soft beauty descended on the

spirit, and brought a feeling half of sadness unmixed with pain.

Indeed, to be sad in heaven is a luxury—one of the most delicate

pleasures it can give.

Along the winding paths and mossy banks the faintest glow of light was

shining. It now touched the sleeping flower-bells and the blades of

grass, whitened the dark barks of trees, and lit upon the forest brooks

that rippled and clattered in the silence with an _abandon_ all

their own.

We walked on, each occupied by thoughts, sweet perhaps as sad, till at

last, throwing himself down on a bank that sloped towards a branching

rivulet, he spoke.

“Genius, I am going to tell you something. Perhaps the world will

laugh—it has ever laughed when truth was spoken—but, be that as it

may, you can but repeat with truthfulness and pure simplicity what

you have heard me say. I have fought many years for the earth, have

undergone great hardships for it, been true to it through thick and

thin, pitied it, striven for it, respected its suffering. I do not say

this in order to extol my own hard labours. Why should I? Others like

myself are working and have worked—it is our duty. But now I am going

to tell you a little of its history. I force it upon no one. I tell it

you, you will repeat it to others; whether they think about it or laugh

at it, it is not for me to say. But if they think, they will not laugh,

of that you may rest assured.

“Long ago, in the ages long before man was ever known upon the earth,

the spirit world moved and lived. From eternity into eternity, so the

great wave ran, just as it ever has and will do. Man cannot grasp it,

no more than a lifeless seed can understand the flower it brings to

light and life. We were happy, in that half-unconscious youth that

clings through eternity. Springing into life and form and power by

our own strength and guiding intellect, glorious and true in every

conception, with other life springing up around us, giving and taking,

now one thing, now another, a mist, a wraith, unconsciousness of

feeling or of form, then again resplendent, hard or brilliant, full

of consciousness or life. And so the ages rolled in this corner of

space in which we lived. Sometimes we would roam abroad as now into

the far, far fields of space, ever with that courteous interchange of

hospitality which is the birthright of all our race. We were friends,

friends as only those born as gods can ever be. To live with us was to

love and to respect. But this has nothing to do with humanity, I must

advance.

“The blind forces of Nature were our servants—I have shown you how.

Pure intellect and inanimate material produced by it mixed together,

devoid of feeling and the higher life. Then because experiment and

movement are a part of our being we designed the worlds. Some gave

one thing, some another, and at last the mighty cast was ready. Then

came the great convocation, and the question, whom to put upon these

spheres. Those ours previously we retained, but those thrown off from

us were a prize for the highest intellect to settle.

“I remember well the great assembly seated on thrones which were no

thrones of preparation, but the outcome of that dazzling light which

draws round all of us.

“Then Vestasian rose—you know him—Fairest of the Fair—Lightest of

Light—the best-beloved of all. He was more beautiful than the sun, and

stronger, with what seemed to be all the soft graces that combine in

woman, all the clear intellect and strength of man. I doubt that this

soft grace was but the flimsy covering that hid the great difference

betwixt such as he and me. Till then he had been my best-beloved

brother next to Plucritus, who, once having sprung into birth with me,

was like myself.

“But to return.

“In the clear silence that accompanied his rising Vestasian spoke,—

“‘It is our nature to be kind and courteous. Nature, our humble

servant, needs some reward for all these ages of untiring work. We can

but repay her labours with a crown made in our own image, built on our

lines, endued with all our intellect and reason, called by the simple

name of Man.’

“You know his voice, as sweet as any woman’s, yet with the deep note

ringing in it that compels a hearing, even from those who would not

hear.

“Ringing applause followed these words, for his simplicity and courtesy

were wonderful; he had given voice to the thoughts of all, yet with

such sweet humility that never had my love for him before reached such

limits.

“Then from near at hand Plucritus spoke, leaning back half indolently,

a faint smile hovering on his lips.

“‘Are we to raise gods from soil?’ he asked. ‘Nature will groan beneath

the burden and cast it on to us.’

“Silence followed, till a brother of Vestasian, he who stood before the

Cross and appeared in the hall of Pilate, said, ‘Let Nature provide the

flesh and blood, we will supply the rest.’

“Next Gabriel rose.

“‘First let us hear Vestasian through,’ he suggested. ‘This is a

project of which I for one would hear still more.’

“Vestasian rose and made that speech which in the annals of Heaven is

so famous. I will give it briefly, leaving out much that he put in.

“‘I advise that we raise from the dust of earth beings like ourselves,

inferior only in power, eternity, and infinite conception of wisdom.

They should be the greatest living ornament of Nature, exceeding

everything. Their lives should be a span of golden happiness and

pleasure, as like our own as possible. But being frail, and merely the

experimental plaything of the Godhead, I would withhold from them the

knowledge of the higher state of good and evil, and I would bind them

in to a phase of life having a gentle end.’

“Thus much Vestasian in simple words and few, a mixture of kindness and

pride, and an indulgence which lacked wisdom, having nothing higher for

its aim than a semblance of what was not.

“Next, Michael rose—he is held to be among the wisest of the wise.

You must know that in the spirit world there are two great powers or

principles—good and evil. Every higher Spirit is built up of either

of these two, yet not the most keen-sighted can tell which is which

till a difference arises, for in reality both are just alike, and only

external and the weaker things can ever feel the different effects.

Take for example Plucritus and myself; we are the same in everything

except principle—that unreal thing which looks like a shadow but can

alter everything. Yet he and I were the greatest friends together,

following the same pursuits, interested by the same things, till the

great argument arose. One might have thought this mutual fellow-feeling

that pervaded all of us would have broken down all obstacles. But

not so. It has always been the case in every constellation. The two

powers, so similar at first, break apart at last, each understanding

but not being the other. Yet each is necessary to the other, the two

great principles that sway back and forwards and keep the balance even.

For evil, as you think of evil on the earth, is but a relative and

comparative thing, and not understanding it the earth looks down on it,

which is another jest. For evil is as pure as good, as simple as good,

as true as good, as beautiful and equal, the only difference being

that its influence on things weaker than itself is to lower instead of

raise.

“When Michael rose there was as deep a silence as for Vestasian, and he

argued thus.

“He said that in the main he agreed with what had just been stated, but

pointed out what an aimless existence man must lead, being born but for

a short life of pleasure and beauty, and given enough spirit to enjoy

and then to lose. He pointed out the great spiritual waste it would

necessitate, since no result of any magnitude would be obtained from it.

“‘Not so,’ argued Vestasian. ‘Whatever effort they are able in

themselves to accomplish successfully will return to us for our use, to

make what we like out of this new experiment, which could not fail to

produce some fruits worthy our gathering.’

“‘Ignorance never yet produced anything but—’ began the other.

“‘But Sin,’ Plucritus put in, so quietly that but for the intense

silence it would have been lost even on those who sat beside him.

“Then all eyes were turned to him.

“I am ignorant, he said, looking at Michael. ‘I would hear more.’

“Thus asked, Michael unfolded his project.

“‘I hold with Vestasian,’ he declared, ‘that man’s life should be as

happy as our own. But I would give him that wisdom which Vestasian

would take away. I would give him the power to obtain the knowledge of

good and evil, by patient striving to raise himself from the inanimate

laws of nature to the pure rays that have their central light in us.

That surely would be our greatest recompense to Nature, to quicken

into spirit what has been raised from earth and dust and material

substance.’

“This was the wisest and the greatest plan—or seemed to be—to

let mankind learn by effort and endeavour to reach with purity the

Highest—to withhold nothing from man, yet to grant nothing till he had

found it.

“Then asked Plucritus:—

“‘And in this striving after wisdom, which side must the choice fall?’

“‘It may fall either—he is given a free will.’

“‘Is this race of men then to rival and outshine ourselves, that it may

pick and choose betwixt us?’

“You will understand there was nothing but truth and purity and beauty

in his words. He spoke as God despising propositions, not as man

striving against his brother man.

“‘When man has once discovered good and evil he will be as God,’

Michael replied.

“For some space of time there was silence, till at last Plucritus rose.

“‘I would not willingly detain you, but this project seems to me

absurd. To build up with Nature’s aid beings like ourselves! Nature,

who never saw us, but followed blindly on the guiding principles that

we laid down! Can anything exist that has not built itself? What is

our strength and beauty but that we raised ourselves and now maintain

ourselves as becomes true spirits? What weaklings would you introduce

and draw towards us? What do we need with outside sycophants? Are

we dull and life grows wearisome, we can change, as often in the past.

But you are not dull. You are striving to break the bond of friendship,

as it has been broken in so many spheres before mere trifle, an

introduction of an alien element. Vestasian seeks to give pleasure to

an inferior race. Give it and make them happy. Let them be thankful.

Spare them the pain that runs in other orbits, for history repeats

itself, and as in other places _choose evil they shall not_, and

who can then choose good?’

“‘Why not?’ asked Vestasian, who had listened earnestly.

“‘It does away with the Free Will,’ Plucritus answered, and laughed.

“After that there was much argument, and gradually the rift began to

grow and widen, and we discovered too late, or not too late, that it

had been caused among us by the little biped—Man.

“So often do little things produce great strife and suffering.

“Thus it grew to a point of great dispute whether humanity was to have

a free will or no, whether it was to receive gifts without striving

and return them or to strive for wisdom, and in acquiring it gain

everything. And after all, like all really little things, it was a

great one. It affects us more nearly than even the wisest foresaw. It

meant giving up so much, even of our own bodies, and entailed suffering

and concentration of thought and purpose which happily by our nature

adds to our strength and beauty and never takes away.

“Presently the conversation ended with courtesy as deep as that which

started it. Yet we were no longer quite the same. Friends to ourselves,

yet differing on one point, which, being Nature’s pinnacle, was an

important one, needing consideration. War had been declared, that

difference of opinion which always ends in it, and they were first in

the field.

“For, rising up from sleep one morning, we beheld a difference in the

spheres, visible only to the spirits’ eye. Not all were changed, but

many; and one, your little earth, I will describe. Round it shone a

mist, so delicately wrapped that it gave it quite a beauty of its

own. This was the wreath of Mystery. We knew it well, and because its

mystery was mysterious we approached and floated through its wide

expanse to reach the earth—when suddenly we came upon a chain that

bound the whole sphere round and stopped our passage. It was like an

iron network, yet very fine and pliable like a fisherman’s. I, for one,

cut the net and descended. It was very easy work, though it closed over

our heads when we were through. Earth was no different from what it had

ever seemed. No life was yet apparent on it. That followed.

“There was nothing there to be discovered; beyond the mist and chain

things were as usual. At our next convocation this change was mentioned.

“They had seized the earth and other spheres, which henceforth belonged

to them until such time as they cared to give them up.

“I had scarcely seen Vestasian in more excellent humour than on that

day.

“‘We have considered your plans well,’ said he, ‘and have decided

that after all a free will is the best thing for man. He shall choose

betwixt Good and Evil, and shall receive whate’er his choice may fall

to. If Evil, then he shall reap the fruits of Evil. If Good, then

you must see to it. We have decided to make Man in our own image;

allowing, of course for some slight divergences of Nature, who, not

comprehending us to the full, cannot draw us altogether truthfully,

yet the likeness shall be such that all can tell it. We intend to

make them also male and female, so that they will be blessed even as

ourselves and rank themselves our equals. Moreover, we invite you to

behold and criticise our labours, which, though poor, are the nearest

reflection of your own that we could find. Our system is comprehensive,

it includes everything.’

“‘Therefore,’ remarked Plucritus, looking towards me, ‘you will, of

course, expect to find it very muddled.’

“‘Let me ask one question,’ I broke in. ‘Does your system embrace

physical decay and death?’

“‘Why, yes,’ Vestasian answered. ‘Of course. It is necessary in order

to prevent overcrowding. Moreover, we have tried to combine your system

with our own, and death would have been a phase in any case.’

“‘Yes,’ I argued. ‘But there is death and death.’

“‘What matter?’ said he. ‘You will soon find the pathway glutted, for

all will crowd towards it, choosing by Free Will Good rather than Evil.’

“Then Vestasian, still laughing, rose to leave the Assembly.

“‘I am still a single spirit,’ he observed. ‘More lonely than most, yet

still quite content. When from Earth a female Spirit is raised pure

enough and wise enough to aspire unto the Godhead, I will marry her and

admit that a Free Will is not a bad thing—even in Woman.’

“And with that he went away, and all remaining laughed.

“From that time forward the jest rolled onward, for to Vestasian and

those like him it was nothing better than a jest, nor ever has been.

They have fought and been obliged to suffer, even as we, because the

spiritual warfare is incessant.

“We were in a perfect mystery about the earth. Beyond its shape and

natural organism we knew nothing further of it.

“Gradually as the ages went by we discovered signs of life there. From

this, in time, insects sprang, and hideous monsters and huge animals,

and on all this we were obliged to keep incessant and untiring watch to

discover when man first made his entry. This, as you know, was not for

long, long ages. We touched first here and there on every animal, but

found none sensitive: none responded in any way, and the rays slipped

blunted aside.”

“But could you not tell from his appearance?” I asked, interrupting for

the first time.

“No. There was no Garden of Eden as the Bible has it. That Garden of

Eden might have been, and was not. It was Vestasian’s dream. Man was

no different from the other animals when we found him; the mysterious

jewel was hidden underneath unknown to us.

“One day one of our number had sent a shaft of light on to an animal

more hideous than most, or so it seemed to us. There was no response,

but as the shaft glanced aside it struck another of the same class

lying near. The effect was very unexpected, though slight and

momentary; the creature trembled. Having notified this much, another

ray was directed full on this, a cry of pain followed. That was a

surprise, a very sad one, because this was healing light. Here then we

had found the first little clue to the great secret of humanity. The

powers of hell laughed when they heard that cry, laughed when they saw

our pained surprise. They had understood and waited for it. This that

the ray had pierced was a woman. Well might Vestasian’s words call up a

smile, for it was a thing devoid of beauty or intellect or grace. And

that from which the ray had glinted aside was her husband—Man.

“But the first ray had struck home at last—the battle had at last

begun. Each side had to prepare for the long fight, in which the atom

of humanity turned the scale of equal-balanced powers. And so because

woman was the first to receive what man could not understand it came

about that he looked down on her, and treated her with contempt as a

household drudge and worse. It was but another little jest of the great

powers of Evil, turning all good to their own account, and instead of

woman becoming the acknowledged influence to lead man to higher things,

she sank under the stronger power of Evil for the most part, and

delivered up the tiny ray of light to him—second-hand as it were, like

the Apple in the Garden. It was but natural. The strongest gained and

the weak went to the wall.

“But gradually, as century followed century in endless routine, the

change began to show itself. True, every weapon of ours was met by a

counter weapon from our brother spirits, yet slowly, inch by inch, the

great fight was fought, the mystery unfolded.

“And at last intellect broke on cunning. Intellect is not a gift of

ours. It comes from the other side. It was forced on them by us,

though, since they did not give it till it could act as a slur to

our teaching. Wisdom they have never given; it comes from us alone.

Still for all that our progress was slow and uncertain. In the first

place, we could not tell what had attracted humanity to us, because in

structure they were but little different from the other animals—at one

time not at all. It took long ages to solve the riddle, and it occupied

the undivided attention of some of our wisest spirits.

“At last we discovered that the nucleus of each was a spiritual jewel

set like a skeleton of empty cells. These cells, in the early ages,

must always have remained empty, for otherwise they would have become

noticeable, which they were not. But as the ages passed away we began

to find that in some cases some of these cells at least were filling.

It was a very wonderful structure, though simple. Every cell was

bound to be filled with one of two things (if it filled at all)—Good

or Evil. This was the soul—the thing that man has talked about so

greatly, the thing for which we fight and which is so precious to us,

forming our brightest jewels, and the seeds from which the after life

is sown. When the soul is pure and free from every stain we receive

it into our own spiritual bodies when death steals on the flesh. And

as the Father of the Spirit we form those seeds within ourselves to

our own natures. Then from us they pass into the essence of spiritual

love and light, the purest element of spirit; such as my wife. And

these are those gracious, loving mothers, without whose sweet care

and love and wisdom in building up such tender life our labours would

be lost. Since at the best the soul is but a crude thing, even when

purest, as compared with things of heaven, and of itself would die

and never germinate, having no strength to form itself. Indeed, who

ever yet, however free from sin, felt themselves fit to step from

earth to heaven even by death? For the long rest must come—the pure

cleansing, the healing strength, the quickening spirit—to drive away

the harshness and the shadow.

“But I have made a digression to explain. I must return to the earth’s

history. I said our progress was slow and uncertain; but in eternity

the time goes by without respect to feeling, it neither drags nor

quickens. Hundreds, nay, thousands of years elapsed before we could

make our power felt at all. The earth could not understand us. It was

wrapped in the veil of mystery and the chain of slavery, and was blind

and deaf to all influence from without. We were alien to it—strangers,

ignorant, and, by the law of conquest, weak, for the world was not

our own. Moreover, as you will perceive if you care to look into its

history, the whole thing reads more or less as a farce, a jest of the

Godhead, as indeed it was.

“Whenever good rose up it was rejected, scorned, despised and mocked

till it grew old, and then respectability being born with age it was

received and converted into evil. Good men died, egged on by screeching

multitudes to death, themselves egged on by devils of inferior order,

who had chosen evil rather than good. And there the farce and tragedy

were again repeated. They rewarded evil with the effects of evil—as

they said—bringing about all that torture and disrupture of the

spirit, which, like the undying worm the Saviour spoke of, must writhe

and twine until its appointed day. Moreover, this suffering and this

great curse are due to us, they say. For had we been content to let man

live his length of days without knowledge of good or evil, he would

never have known pain, and passed away in happiness like summer mist.

“At last we made an agreement at another conference, and it was this.

“We had known that as years rolled by and the empty cells became

capable of being filled they had on death descended to hell, there to

be emptied or built into hideous shape according to their fulness. Now

we demanded that each soul not completely given up to evil (or almost

so) might, when emptied, return again to earth, for on some our light

had shone, and it meant that this last ray went to swell the enemy’s

spoils and weakened us, since it was giving up part of our being. They

agreed to this, and then the after suffering began. Hell, previously,

had been but the dark shadow, except to those trained to its menial

service, who had wilfully steeped themselves in sin and shame.

“It was a bold, it may seem a cruel stroke, as it had taken us long

to fathom this little riddle of growing evolution. Heaven is often

depicted as a land of endless hallelujahs, but some of us have no taste

that way. It needs an absorbing genius of wisdom (which is simplicity)

even to understand it. And presently, after these years of failure

and disappointment, another little step to success was reached. In

hell they give devil’s medicine and devil’s punishment. And it is an

excellent cure of its kind. They never punish lightly. If a thing is

worth punishing they punish, if not they let it pass, to the winds,

perhaps, if it is no use. And so those souls which had to be reclaimed,

redeemed if you like it better, suffered their punishment and then

returned for the second time to earth. But the cloud of mystery again

surrounded them. They remembered, yet remembered not. They were, and

are, those more sensitive and higher natures for which the world can

often not account. They have had a forgotten experience, whose effects

in part remain.

“And it was with these that our best work was done; unless when they

dispatched them from their prison they wrought in them a gift. And

then the task was well-nigh hopeless. For they felt the presence of

the Godhead in themselves and were blinded by the mist. They longed

for something higher to respond to themselves, and on the dull cramped

earth could find nothing, because the gift had not come from us. But if

they sought and strove to find the light we ne’er withheld from any,

then they became our truest servants, and the gift given in hell came

to heaven and distinguished good from evil as it were, and dwelt with

us.

“The first souls that came to heaven capable of bearing life-forming

seeds had undergone this pre-experience. They were few, very few, as

you will understand, and not often those which the world would think

would arrive there. They were the weak and helpless, the suffering and

the patient, who had learnt from the past and present to stand what

others could never tamely undergo. They needed above all the spirit

of endurance, and all these things are wonderfully well learnt in

hell—they are remembered even when forgotten, in the hour of need.

My wife Ursula was one these. A noble spirit with great faults tamed

in hell and sent again on to earth to suffer in the hour of need. She

was one of our first children. I remember the great rejoicing when

she was born, and how all gathered round to see a result which all

had striven for from time scarce countable. And as I stooped to kiss

the baby fingers I felt them clasp unconsciously around my own, and

ever afterwards I stood by her through the great weakness and the

after-strength that ends the long journey.

“But our progress on the earth was very slow. We had no bribes to

offer, nothing to give but a purity and simplicity they could not

understand. For, as you know, the earth is tawdry and gaudy, and the

devils who tempted it understood its littleness and mediocrity well.

And here you will understand that those tempting devils are not the

great powers of Evil. I do not know that those great powers have ever

once put temptation in the way of man. They punish and give pain, but

for the rest, knowing well man’s nature, they leave things to his

weakness and ignorance and the slave spirits that work to ruin him for

their own ends. And man, left to himself, understands the powers of

Evil no better than those of Good. By a remarkably whimsical reasoning,

which is his chief characteristic, he put Evil one lower than Good,

because somehow, by a very muddled yet ironically truthful process, he

has come blindly to understand that Good will help and Evil hinder him.

And as, with natural conceit, he imagined all things were made for him

to pick and choose, he lauded his benefactor, and spoke of the Rival

Power as inferior, and grovelling under a fairly long and loose chain

of thraldom. But God is God, whether of Evil or of Good—like action

and re-action—equal and opposite.

“I have said that we had nothing to offer humanity. The world did not

belong to us, and therefore no pleasure nor greatness that it could

give could come from us. But nobility and purity and strength of

character had grown up even in this poor soil, as I have shown.

“And then at last the greatest riddle of all was solved—the riddle

of human nature. You will perhaps think it was a ridiculously long

time to have spent upon so simple a thing. The length of time and the

simplicity are equal. We discovered if we were to act with humanity we

must suffer with it, feel with it, be of it—in fact, take its nature

upon ourselves. It was, or seemed to be, a step of utter humiliation

and shame. I remember the time when the discovery was made—the silence

that came after it. Before, we had always felt a certain amount of joy

and triumph, but now that had gone. But because we had given the word

of God to uplift humanity, it could not be broken, nor would we have

wished to if we could. We wished to save and raise the many, not the

few; and the word ‘impossible’ was unknown to us. The powers of Evil

laughed, as well they might. This was the most exquisite jest of all.

If we would drag humanity up to us we must first descend to it, not

in condescension and superiority but in equality—not even that. But

there could be no dallying nor shirking by delay. Our plan was now to

see how the great work could be accomplished. It must be done secretly,

the introduction of pure light and Godhead on to earth, or otherwise it

would meet with ineffectual defeat, and the chance once lost would pass

for ever. About this time there was born to me a daughter. She was our

first-born child, and it seemed to my fond eyes I had never yet beheld

anything so fair and lovely. I used to watch her as she played about

the house, and she it was who drew me nearer to the earth—since she

had sprung from it by much trial and tribulation.

“But as she grew the question grew, How to descend unknown to touch the

nature of humanity.

“Then each spirit of heaven brought some pure essence of his own

body, and the whole was compressed to a seed so small as to be near

invisible. And it was this one seed that, coming from us and returning

to us, made us at one, or seemingly at one, with man.

“The greatest of our sages then were gathered to see how this fine seed

could be translated to the earth effectively and secretly, for its

presence was traceable but to the blind. At last Michael counselled

thus:—

“‘If we send it by one who is as innocent of its presence as of sin or

harm we may expect success. None act so well as those free from all

taint of deception and pre-arranged thought.’

“And the lot fell upon my daughter.

“She was but a tender spirit, not half formed in strength—never having

taken the long journey that completes and perfects the strength to that

of highest God. She had nothing but her own sweet graces and winning

perfection of beauty; not a fit thing to be left alone in any place

of danger. Moreover, she had had no experience of anything beyond our

home, and all her days had been spent in singing about the house, and

working, and studying such things as were suitable to her age and

understanding.

“With no ostentation we saw her leave heaven and hover into space.

“As she had slept the night before we had placed the seed within her

bosom, and she, unconscious, smiled and clasped my fingers in her hand

as once her mother did when quite a child. We saw her go, and all

heaven watched in silence, and she went smiling, not understanding why

she went, but as some passing pleasure of the hour.

“Then there happened one of those unforeseen things that alter

everything. By utter chance it happened that that day Vestasian had

visited the earth, and as he flew up above the chain and mist he saw

this lovely vision hovering there.

“He was surprised, no doubt, to see anything so weak and defenceless

near that great battlefield. And she, not knowing friend from enemy,

and feeling lonely in the great waste, drew towards him.

“And then began that which I told you of the other day. It was a case

of hardness and strength trying to absorb softness and no strength—for

that was what our daughter lacked. The only lasting and eternal

strength within her was that which I had given, won from the earth.

But at times, most curiously, there is strength in utter weakness, for

Vestasian, acting on the impulse of the moment, despising and laughing

at this weakness, caught her—and then was caught. For she had no

strength to resist his all-absorbing strength; he no weakness with

which to resist weakness. Almost within the instant they were joined—a

union so perfect that it became imperfect, seeing it lacked one great

element to keep the balance even. And so, in innocence, she went

with him to hell; and at last the marriage had taken place, the one

of which he spoke long since in jest. But as time went on, having on

earth chosen Good and not Evil, and finding no principle of Good among

these strangers she sickened, and at last died. All but those seeds of

life and a frail skeleton of grace and beauty left her and passed to

Vestasian, the only dowry she took to him—her life. Yet one thing she

had hidden until the end—which only parted from her with her life—and

that was our great secret, the seed of God to be imparted to humanity.

“And on the night she died and passed away from hell, drawn by the

power of God again to heaven, she went with him to see the lost souls

pray, and sang a song so sweet, so full of love and purity and light,

that one would have thought the very walls might have melted into tears

and gentleness. But not so those poor prisoners bound in darkness.

They heard, yet could not hear, except for one tired, weary, worn-out

soul whose term of prison life was over. He heard and soared with the

last flicker of life towards the dying angel, and she, with that sweet

thankfulness for trifles which always went with her, received this one

as a gift most precious and clasped it to her bosom. The act was just

in time, the mighty, hidden light she carried in her had passed beyond

her feeble strength. From her it passed into the innermost cell of that

soul cleansed by the fire of hell to an apparent newness.

“And Vestasian, blind with love, and blind with grief at the sad

parting, which even he could scarcely understand, never noticed

anything amiss, and let her return to me, who waited to carry her back

to life and light. Then, as we passed the earth, we laid this soul,

with its unconscious burden, within the lowly manger. Vestasian saw,

yet saw not—neither did any of them at the time. And this pure Virgin

Mother came back to heaven, and slept again the long, long sleep, and

when she rose, refreshed and strengthened, stayed with us till she went

again to him. And in the meantime, as the Saviour’s life advanced,

they saw that we had solved their riddle, and recognised the part my

daughter, Purity, had played in it.

“You remember well his life, of utter strength and utter weakness, the

finest tragedy that e’er was played upon the earth.

“Surely then you yourself can read the rest. We, who had so humbled

ourselves to send of our inmost being to the earth, were met with

scoffs and laughter, misunderstood, and the outward sign of our

presence, the body of Jesus, spat at and humbled to the very dust.

* * * * *

_Several passages omitted_

* * * * *

“When Jesus of Nazareth died, the Christ Spirit which was in him

returned to us from whom it passed. It entered into us and brought

us more in sympathy with Man, to understand him better, feel his

suffering and temptation, a thing before almost unknown to us except

in the abstract theory. But his soul was a thing as other souls, the

seed properly sown from which mankind may rise to heaven. So his soul

entered into the body of the spiritual father who had ever stood by

him in silence, waiting the last sad gasp of pain. And now you see

him, the heavenly likeness of that earthly substance, glorified and

beautified and turned to God.

“And she, the Virgin Mother, still returns to hell, and when she

carries souls away with her endows them with what graces lie in her

power, which then is very feeble. And now they can no more suspect her,

for the great seed has gone forth and returned, whatever its effects

have been and are upon the earth.

“And now I have told you the story of the earth’s evolution as

truthfully and as shortly as I can. To show you how it sprang from

evil and not from good, to show how it was born in blind mystery and

chains, the sport and cruel pastime of the Godhead, a mixture of jest

and warfare, an intertwining of truth and error, so interlaced that

each was truth and no truth, error and no error at a time. I could tell

you more, but time is quickly gone and we must go. You have listened

patiently. Would that others would do so too.” And here he ceased.

I had listened as one in an enchanted forest. Round us as he spoke the

soft faint light had drawn as in a circle, its outer rims spreading

in varied colours far out among the trees. From the deep lake near by

came the legend song of the dying swan, filling the air with sadness.

At times the nightingale warbled rich and full and then was silent, and

the owl ever sent its eerie cry down the glades, sad and lonely, yet

with no harsh note to break the saddened charm.

And so we went away, back through the forest to the silent city, and

though it was night, and Nature’s darkness closed around it, I had

never seen a more dazzling sight.

CHAPTER VIII

Next day I went to visit a painter, Adrian, and he took me to an inner

studio where he kept some of his favourite works, and at last he stayed

before a white curtain, soft as velvet and as pure as mountain mist,

and drew it gently backward.

“This is my masterpiece,” said he, and stepped back smiling gravely.

I looked and saw a face unseen before that had haunted me all my life

though till this day unknown.

He drew the curtain back long before I had had my fill of gazing at it.

“Silence is better than applause,” he said, and put his hand upon my

arm and moved away.

“Who is it?” I asked at last.

“That is Purity, Vestasian’s wife, the Virgin Mother of the God in Man.”

“She is more beautiful than all in heaven.”

He stopped and looked at me and shook his head and smiled.

“Not more beautiful, a little different, that is all. A little

tenderer, a little weaker, a little quieter, at times a little gayer,

at others a little more afraid of pain, and that is all.”

I stayed with him all the morning, and in the afternoon went to see

Philemon.

He dwelt on the other side of the river, and lived there very happily,

and Sunbeam and Moonbeam, who often used to go to have tea with him,

always came back with wonderful accounts of what they had seen and

heard and done. This afternoon I found him busy preparing medicines

and consulting every now and then a large book, which he had compiled

himself from his own investigations. But for all that he was willing

enough that I should join him, though he still continued his work at

odd intervals. I sat in the large open window and looked down on the

river. It was very bright and full of life down there. Pleasure barges

and swift canoes glided up and down the water, others walked upon its

shining ripples, and every now and then a form would rise from it and

shake the dashing spray far off in every direction.

At last Philemon threw aside his work and joined me there.

“You were up late last night,” he said.

“Yes. I went with Virginius to the forest and he gave me an historical

outline of the earth.”

“Did it interest you?”

“Very much. It accounts for a great deal which I did not understand

before.”

He looked at me.

“I thought your experience was a large one,” he remarked.

“I used to think so myself,” I admitted, laughing. “But lately I have

come to the conclusion I know very little of what I thought I knew, so

have altered my opinion.”

“You have been in hell?”

“Undoubtedly. That was another surprise for me. It was so different

from what I thought.”

“Are you quite sure you have never been there before?” he asked

suddenly, and turned upon me a pair of eyes so scrutinising that,

despite myself, I smiled.

“I’m sure of nothing, but I have no recollection of it.”

“I mean, you have never been there and found it as enjoyable as heaven.”

It was my turn now to return the stare.

“What do you mean?” I queried.

“I wish to know where you came from.”

“I am perfectly ignorant. If you wished me to find the way back to the

place from whence I came I could not do so. I lived in a world at the

other side of the magic mirror, and one day the mirror cracked and

shivered from side to side and I alighted without premeditation on the

earth, not even in my own habiliments but some which I borrowed for

a masquerade. And being caught and taken seriously as a thief, and

meeting with no intelligent person sharp enough to understand my case,

I was branded forthwith and dispatched post haste to hell.”

“You are sure this world you spoke of was not given you by Vestasian?”

“Pardon me, I was not even king there.”

He laughed.

“Did you enjoy life?”

“Why, yes. It was surprising the amount of evil one could bring about

in a day and yet be entirely innocent oneself.”

He looked at me.

“Ah! be careful, Genius. You are giving yourself away. That is

Vestasian’s peculiarity. Were you at all well acquainted with

Plucritus?”

“Why, yes. Before I was dropped willy-nilly in the little farm he and

I were very friendly. He was such excellent company.”

“And Virginius—had you known him?”

“Yes, but I never understood him. He had a way of looking which was

very puzzling, almost annoying. Moreover, he persisted in acting as if

I had lived for ever, a phase of existence I do not remember at all.”

“And Vestasian?”

“I never saw him till I went to hell.”

“Never saw him?”

“Never.”

“But you are very like him.”

“I can account for that. I took to staring at him on a bridge at

midnight; the likeness must have grown from that.”

“You are not speaking seriously.”

“Indeed I am.”

“Tell me of your father and mother.”

But I shook my head.

“Indeed, I would rather not. I am not at all fond of speaking of

myself, though by a strange irony it never may appear so.”

“What may not appear so?”

The words caused us to look towards the door, and there, just within

it, stood Vestasian—the subject of Philemon’s doubts and fears.

We were neither of us surprised. Vestasian never did surprise people

because he surprised them so completely. And I for one was pleased to

see him because he had always interested me, and because he was the

only one for whom I had entertained any fear.

As I went to greet him I noticed again the sweetness of his face and

the hardness; one seemed to cover the other like a mask. His was a face

which some, to pride themselves on far-seeing, would say they could not

trust, but then I don’t think he ever had any ambition to be trusted.

“You are pleased to see me, Genius,” he said, coming forward. “We

did not take an affectionate leave of one another—it was rather too

unexpected and too hasty. Who would have thought the last time I saw

you you were bound that night for heaven?”

“No, indeed. I had expected perfect annihilation or a second phase of

hell.”

He looked at me.

“You are looking much stronger than when I saw you last,” he observed.

“I find the society of heaven more congenial.”

Without answering he went to a sofa, the only thing of luxury in the

room, and threw himself down among the cushions and clasped his hands

above his head.

All this time Philemon had been watching him from the window. He had

not risen from his seat there, but apparently had not objected to the

interruption.

Vestasian lying there looked the very picture of luxurious ease.

Beautiful he was without a doubt, the kind of beauty that grows on one

the more one sees it.

“Which of us have you come to see?” asked Philemon at length, seeing

the conversation had suddenly come to a standstill.

“Both of you. You have no objection, Philemon?”

“None. Why have you come?”

“I have come for no particular reason. Time was dragging on my hands,

which is a new experience for me, or perhaps my wife is growing ill and

longs for the edelweiss of heaven.”

“I never saw her after all,” I said.

“No. Philemon, why do you look at me with such a disagreeable

minuteness?”

“I am trying to solve what relationship Genius bears to you.”

“You had best put it under a microscope.”

“Is it so small then?”

“Undoubtedly. What relationship should he bear to me? He has come from

earth, a place I never visit.”

“I noticed such a strong likeness I imagined there must be some

relationship.”

“A strong likeness,” cried Vestasian in a voice as hard and cold as his

face had suddenly grown, and he gazed over at me probably to discover

the resemblance.

“You need not think the distaste is all one-sided,” I observed. “You

are the last person in the universe I have the least ambition to be

like.”

“Then it gives me the greatest pleasure in the universe to believe in

the resemblance. Why do you object to me? But rather let us change the

conversation, it is personal and therefore unpleasant. Do you deal much

in cocaine, Philemon?”

“No, I have no such thing in my laboratory.”

“Come, come, I have known you administer a dose.”

“Indeed not. I never give any strong medicine in more than one

dose—and the effect is lasting. The effects of cocaine, as you know,

pass away.”

Vestasian smiled.

“Yes. All too truly. But do you really mean to say you never give more

than one dose of a strong medicine? Surely the effects cannot last for

ever.”

“They last a pretty sure length anyway. That’s the difference, you

know, between the real thing and a sham.”

“Plucritus is at home ill, suffering from a wound,” Vestasian went on,

turning to me.

“Indeed. That will be a new experience for him,” I suggested.

“Oh, no. Not at all. He and Virginius, as a rule, manage to keep fairly

even.”

“I should think as an invalid he would be rather unmanageable.”

“Not at all. Only, he has one peculiarity. When he is ill he will have

no physician, however experienced and wise. He will have no one but

Vestné to wait on him.”

“And is she a good nurse?”

“Oh! capital. Almost as good as I am.”

“Have you a gift that way?”

“Of course. With a wife as ailing as mine it is necessary I know

something about such things.”

“Yet you are not clever enough to keep her alive.” I repented the words

as soon as said, there was such a clumsy want of feeling about them.

He looked at me and passed his hand before his mouth.

“No, I am not clever enough for that,” he remarked quietly.

“Which way did you come?” Philemon asked.

“I came direct from hell and caught a glimpse of earth as I passed. You

may be thankful you are out of it, Genius; those who dispatched you did

the greatest kindness. I find earth depressing, I never wish to stay

there.”

“If it depresses you, why do you not tear away the chain and the mist?”

He shook his head, then smiled.

“We have given humanity a free will, which is gift enough of its kind.

If they wish to tear away the chain and grope through the mist to the

light, all well and good, but we will raise neither hand nor foot to

help them. Because, after all, if heaven is worth winning it is worth

fighting for and struggling for. We have little sympathy with those who

would walk in in respectable dignity and comfort. Man, by a perfect

irony, has been born to walk upright, but if he arrives at heaven it is

generally by crawling on all fours.”

“You do not grudge them heaven, then, if they attain it?”

“Not at all. Though we often maintain the contest to the last hour.

Look at Philemon here. On the earth he was a little shoemaker who died

in consumption. He had a nagging wife and two children to support. I

think if I remember rightly he was only in bed three days before he

died, and the smell of leather is not pleasant. Now that is what I

call a hero, for he never complained, and was so humble as to imagine

himself no better than those around him; indeed, if anything, he

imagined himself inferior by his lack of physical strength.”

Philemon took this sketch of himself as unconcernedly as if he had been

an outsider.

“And what has become of her—his wife?” I asked, grieving that he

should have been thus long a spiritual bachelor.

“Well, you see, she was put there as a thorn in the flesh to aggravate

and hinder him. There was a time when she did do so, but he got the

better of it, though not of her. She had no real soul, you see; the

cells were empty—it was a sham one. A little structure of nature that

the flesh had grown over, and which a narrow intellect, or rather

understanding, had killed at the birth.”

“What became of her?”

“I don’t know. She wasn’t bad enough for hell, I think. Oh, no. She

died out.”

The most curious part about this discovery was to see Philemon sitting

there listening with a face extremely serious, but not sad.

“You do not grieve for the loss of your wife?” said I.

Here Vestasian laughed outright.

“Oh, no. He was not among the converted nor those who came to the Lord.

At least, he is not now, whatever he may have been then. You see, no

one in heaven grieves over the loss of sham souls. They are the coarse,

low, cramped natures that never probably show it on the outside, that

are put into the world to act as stumbling-blocks to others. It is

only on the earth that sentimental grief and prayer are attached to

them. They are all so wishful to make converts and draw sinners to

Christ. Why it would be hard to say. They forget that people like Mary

Magdalene, whom they are so fond of quoting, went to him of herself and

needed no external urging. No. Neither in heaven nor hell do we grieve

over the loss of sham souls; they are simply useful in their effects on

other people.”

“Then surely they should not be tolerated.”

Vestasian smiled.

“Your schools are conducted on a wrong principle, as are so many of

your homes. Your punishments are not strong enough, your prisons are

too full. But if I talk thus I will help to drive the cloud away, which

will almost make of me a traitor.”

“Not it,” cried Philemon, laughing. “You put it there between you, but

it sticks by the law of gravity, which has not yet learned to smile

without becoming irreverent.”

“I suppose then you would teach pure morality and leave out religion,”

I said.

“It would be best,” Philemon declared.

“Ssh! Ssh! Don’t rouse the clergy,” Vestasian exclaimed.

“Why not? I could say the project came from hell.”

“Certainly.”

* * * * *

_Passage omitted_

* * * * *

“You see,” said Philemon, after a pause, “faith springs from true

morality, but it does not spring up with it. If a man is moral simply

because he is religious he is but a weakling, needing a crutch to lean

against. He should be moral out of respect for his brother man, a pure

feeling to lead a clean life, because it is right, without hope of

reward or glamour of future glorification. And as long as the Church

tries to force the two into the same channel it is but a failure,

whatever it may appear on the outside.”

“Well, of course,” affirmed Vestasian, indulgently. “But what can you

expect on the earth? They muddle things so. For one thing, they are

always trying to confound flesh and the spirit, pretty much as they

confound their religion and morality. But flesh is flesh, and spirit

will be spirit, if they howl and pray over it from now till Domesday.

What could be more amusing than to listen to the man who says grace

at meal-times? He returns thanks to my side of the Godhead for giving

him the fruits of our little serfdom, earth. He knows the world and

all upon it belongs to us; the Bible tells him so if he will read it,

and the Catechism too. But though he reads he’s stubborn and won’t

understand. He returns thanks for his food, whereas we don’t care a jot

whether its well cooked or ill. Now, if he would simply take it with

contentment and enjoyment, and be ready for poorer fare next day if it

came his way, he’d show some sense. And if by saying grace he thinks he

pleases such as Virginius and the rest, how far from the mark is he!

They are as callous about his appetite as we ourselves, and only drop

an unavailing tear when he eats or drinks too much.

“Then again there is the marriage service, and the baptismal service,

and all the rest, except the burial service. Forever trying to put

the spirit first and the flesh second, and gradually to draw a pretty

tight slip o’er them both, with spirit uppermost so that the flesh is

comfortably hidden underneath. All this for respectability, which is

the devil’s sham ermine cloak, as civilisation is his sham gold crown.”

“Yes, but you know if the world loses respectability it takes on the

other thing,” Philemon remarked.

“I know. Thereby testifying to its own depravity. Now for my part, the

people on earth I most admire are those who have lost respectability

and found something truer and deeper.”

“Vestasian,” said Philemon, “you must cease, or you will be becoming,

as you said—a traitor.”

He threw his head back on the pillow.

“I am excusable. When I am in heaven I feel for the time as those in

heaven. And after all, it is not my fault that the earth is as it is.

I came almost to the level of neutrality but was bound to take a side,

and got pushed by an unforeseen event to the apex.”

“Tell me further of Philemon,” said I.

“What of him? There is nothing further to tell, except that he has done

his little toward keeping others out of heaven.”

“How so?”

“Well, the people who patronised him and had their shoes charitably

repaired at his little shed naturally would not care to associate with

him here any more than on the earth. They would say he smelled of

leather and begged to be excused. They might join the elements with

his wife, or come to the exclusive cells of hell. But to get there one

needs a rather higher order of character. It isn’t every duffer who

gets to us any more than to heaven.”

“I agree with you.”

“You see,” he went on dreamily, his voice having sunk to a sweet

monotone, “every man worth calling a man, or woman for that matter,

has his little back parlour. Some call it their conscience. It’s a

little empty dark place at first with no real light in it, for the

backyard wall is very high. And after a time furniture begins to appear

in it. An armchair grows—a kind of dentist arrangement, which brings

no comfort when he sits in it. And then a table, which holds just the

little things he doesn’t want to see. The carpet is nothing but a

worn-out mat that shews strange stains upon the floor. And then there

is the cupboard. He keeps the door shut if he can. The shelves are

so dusty, the smell so musty, the skeleton so real. And the fire is

a very funny fire. In winter the flames are icy cold and freeze the

marrow of his bones, and in summer the fire is still there, raging hot

and strong. It’s a very shabby little back parlour, even though it

is built in the centre of a king’s palace. And the owner isn’t fond

of going into it—because there’s nothing there of which he can be

proud. Moreover, he can never take anyone in with him, not even his

wife—there’s only room for one. Besides, if he could get his wife in

it wouldn’t be a back parlour any longer. It would be a little homely

kitchen—the sweetest of all things. Besides, she has her little back

parlour too, and perhaps all her time is spent in trying to sweep away

the cobwebs that will not go. And all through life the little parlour

remains, and as much as possible they keep out of it and try to think

it isn’t there. And then one of two things will happen. One day he will

go into this little cell and pat all in order and dust it to the best

of his poor ability, and then he will sit down and wait, and the pure

light will shine and the back parlour will become a shadow—a memory of

the past instead of a reality. Or otherwise he will go there and find,

alas! that the door is closed upon him and he cannot get out. And no

light has entered, nor ever will enter, as far as he can see. He won’t

know where he is. He’ll imagine it’s a long dream of endless night, for

after awhile he will forget where the door is and lose the power to

want to get out. And he will have nothing to look at but the cupboard

and the table—nothing to feel but the fire, nothing to rest on but

the chair. And then in the long, long end, when it’s all over, he’ll

come back on the earth if his soul has been bargained for. And if he

was a prince before he may now be a beggar; and if a beggar formerly,

now a prince. Nature will give his flesh the Hapsburg lip or Bourbon

nose—it will not alter his soul. And then the next battle begins with

different flesh in other surroundings, and he stands his chance again.

And some people are not conscious of any back parlours, and they are

those curious people born with the sham soul. And many who would like

to be without the little shabby chamber are all too conscious that it’s

there.”

We had listened to the musical rhythm of his voice throughout, and I

for one had felt its truth, and Philemon was more deeply moved than I.

“Vestasian,” he said, “why do you come here to tell us such things? You

have almost made me feel myself on earth again.”

But Vestasian rose, laughing.

“It’s a queer knack I have of getting low-spirited at times—it is

natural to me—and is never more than a passing whim—no weakness, as

in mortals. Come with me to see Jesus.”

* * * * *

_Two pages of MS. omitted_

* * * * *

Then for some distance we walked on in silence.

The sun was setting behind the high peaked hills with a glorious

speaking silence. I had never seen such purple clouds—such red and

pink and gold embodied in a sky. They cast their reflection on the

spot we walked on and dyed Vestasian’s garments and my own. It was the

stilly point of eve, and none but ourselves walked toward the great

gates that bound the city. And suddenly he stopped, and turning,

looked at me.

“The sun is setting. Nature’s wearying repetition never wearies. Would

by the Godhead that encircles us that I were never weary too. I have

lived the long hard life that fills eternity, and to me there comes a

never-ending circle of unavailing pain. I have stood it time on time

and never wearied, and because I have not murmured they have imagined

I bore well with it and cared not, felt not. What! Can anyone have the

life nerves torn from him and have no pain nor feeling in the process?

I have loved to that strong ecstasy to which only spirits come—and

that love has filled my being. And then when life should be begun and

our true nuptials celebrated, gradually the unseen shadow has crept

in and dragged the vital strength away—inch by inch. For what am I

without this lovely spirit that twines and intermingles with my own?

What am I, or what shall be? Without her I am nothing—inanimate laws

and intellect and beauty intermingled without the quickening grace to

make a perfect whole. I cannot bear to see her die. It sickens me even

to the death to let her go. While she is there my whole heart lives in

her; when gone its throbs beat on a hardened bark that has no softness

such as it had when she was there to charm away the pain. At times it

comes to me to offer the great sacrifice—to give up all and let her go

for ever—to transform myself to Nature’s laws and passing beauty—even

to be part of such sunsets as you see o’er there against the hills.

Then comes the whole absorbing passion. I cannot let her go—I will

not—and the ensuing weakness. For as the dark hour deepens she must

pass torn from my side as never flesh and blood were torn from mortal.

They never know the depth of half my love, and think because I only

realise the half I only feel it. Ah! Genius, you will recognise my

weakness—born from a jest which has enveloped me.”

In silence he led me on towards the gate.

There outside, on the wild, glorious moorland, sat a figure robed in

white.

Seeing us she rose and came toward us.

This was the shadowy, heavenly beauty I had dreamt of. A face more

perfect I had never seen, nor eyes more sweet and star-like, nor lips

more sweetly parted in that tender smile, half mirth, half pathos.

Round her slight waist a belt of shimmering jewels shone, and one great

jewel at her breast. The straying pink of roses played upon her cheek

and faded into white, shaded by eyes so deeply and so softly blue that

one forgot their colour in their depths and longed to live in them. Her

smooth brow was shaded by soft hair, each in itself a tendril of pure

gold having the red glint out of it; but faintly here and there, to

make a perfect colouring.

I could no longer doubt her.

On my knees I took her hands within my own and kissed them, and tears

fell from my eyes, the first in all my life.

But then she drew me up to her and kissed me, even as a mother kisses

some lost, erring child, and held me in her arms, and laughed with

tears in her own eyes, and looked at me with such a long, last look

that ever afterwards I marvelled not at this great grief.

And then she turned to him and took his hand in hers and drew him to

me. He took both my hands within his own and looked into my eyes as she

had done, and kissed my lips and turned away.

And then together, she pressed close to him, and his all-seeming

powerful arm clasped round her, they sailed away together into space.

And I stood still without the gate and watched them.

In the distance they looked like one bright, glorious spirit, moving,

brilliantly white. But as they neared the earth, which they must pass,

the whiteness turned to brilliant red.

He gave one glance across towards the planet, scarce lasting out the

instant, but she raised her head and looked above his shoulder eagerly,

to catch the passing sight. And her fair, fragile face shone there,

looking wistfully, till they had neared the gates of hell.

And then I turned and remembered they had passed in silence. I had

never heard her speak.

And the sun set.

THE END

COLSTON AND COY. LTD., PRINTERS, EDINBURGH