In a great mental upheaval, to be able to decide, even on a point of
secondary importance, is helpful. It is like a plank to the shipwrecked.
Such to her was Iona’s resolution to go to the Basilica and watch all
night. Christ had said “Come!” and she would go as near to him as she
knew how. The sense of blind obedience was restful. She looked across
the town, and a certain peacefulness seemed to hover over the white
building beyond the river. She thought herself like that river, flowing
in silent shadow now after a wild rush from height to depth, and through
dark and stormy ways.
There was no assembly that evening, and the avenue and square were
unlighted. But the roof-terraces were populous, and a murmur of voices
and of music came from them. They called to each other across the narrow
streets; and when some one sang to mandolin or guitar in one terrace,
the near ones hushed themselves to listen. It seemed to Iona like
something that she had heard of long before, it was so far away, and had
so lost its spirit and color.
There are times when to hear laughter gives one a feeling of terror such
as might be felt if it came from a train of cars about to roll down a
precipice. When Dante came up from the Inferno, careless laughter must
have affected him so.
As Iona entered the Basilica, locking the door behind her, the sweet,
true word of an English writer recurred to her: “Solitude is the
antechamber to the presence of God.”
She knelt before the Throne a moment; then, seating herself on the
cushioned step, waited for some plan of life to suggest itself to her as
possible and tolerable.
“It must be outside the mountains,” she began, then checked herself. “It
shall be where God wills.”
But, oh, the torment of it! The utter collapse of all spirit and
elasticity!
The shadows of the portal came up to fall before the light of the
tribune, and the light went down to meet the shadows. Darker slanting
shadows of columns crossed the dim side aisles. There were panels of
deep, rich color between, growing brighter toward the tribune. On the
balustrades were thirty-three lamps, one for each year of the King’s
life. They climbed in a narrowing flame-shape with the Throne and the
tiara. In the jewels a sleeping rainbow stirred.
Iona rose and wandered about the church. What more could she say, or do?
Was she to go out as blind and unconsoled as she had entered? The
silence was terrible. It occurred to her that having had no conscious
and pressing need of God, she had gone on fancying herself in communion
with him when there had been no living communion.
“Do we, indeed, know that God whom we profess to believe in?” she asked
herself. “Have I not as ‘ignorantly worshiped’ him as did the Athenians
of St. Paul’s time? Oh, if I find him not to-night, I shall die!”
Passing up a side aisle, she paused before the picture of a tiger there,
which stood in a strong light, and stared at the Throne. She lifted her
hand to pat his head, and whispered, half smiling, “Have you found the
secret, brother?” Then she went on and knelt again before the tribune,
questioning:—
“Who, then, have I come here to seek, and what? A glorious and
triumphant Deity? Something more, indeed! I seek one who knows sorrow,
poverty, and betrayal. Where is he? Where is the compassion, the power,
the voice of him? I must find him, meet him! Where is he?”
She set herself to call up some image of him as human creatures had seen
him face to face in their need. She recalled other vigils of knight,
crusader, mourner, and sinner. Above all was the supreme vigil of Mary
Magdalen. Ah, what a night of anguish! Ah, what a rapturous morn! To
hear him speak her name as he uttered that “Mary!” on the first Easter
morning would be better than a thousand princes of her blood ruling
through ten thousand years, would be better than to have Dylar look at
her with love’s delight.
She evoked that scene out of the past,—the chill, dewy garden, the
lonely sepulchre, the dull hour before dawn. The present faded from her
view. Gleam of gold and sparkle of jewel, she set them aside. Blotting
out the glow of lamps and the glimmer of marble, it came. She was in the
garden with Mary Magdalen. The stone was rolled away, she heard the
woman’s bitter outcry: _They have taken my Lord away, and I know not
where they have laid him!_
Darkness, sorrow, and desolation reigned. Even the Magdalen, weeping
bitterly, departed. She was alone before an empty sepulchre.
Said faith: “He is here even as he was there, the same. He is invisibly
here in this place, even as he was there. If he be God, he is here.
Hush, my soul! He is here! He is here!”
A Presence grew in the place, felt by her whole being, a sense of life,
gentle and potent. Seen by her soul, Christ stood there looking at her,
and waiting to hear what she might say.
She stretched her hands out to him with a wild burst of tears. “What
shall I do?” she sobbed.
And, oh, wonder of wonders! A voice “still and small,”—the voice that
was heard by Elijah,—a voice more distinct to her soul and her senses
than her own sobbing question had been, answered her!
The angel of truth guides the pen with which I write these words!
The voice came not from the shadows where she had evoked his image by
the mystical incantation of faith. It spoke at her right side, each word
let fall like a pearl, so that she turned her head to listen.
Were they words of compassion, or counsel? Did they propose a plan, or
commend her obedience?
No. They only repeated the Divine invitation: _Come unto me, all ye that
labor, and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest_.
But as they fell softly on her ear, the darkness that had enveloped her
parted, and slipped down like a tent, and a flood of light entered and
illumined her soul. Her hands were still outstretched; but they were
clasped in ecstasy: her tears still flowed; but they were tears of
rapture.
“Oh, why did I not think of it!” she exclaimed; and in that first
inflowing of heaven did not remember that she _had_ thought, and _had_
come, and that the words were but a reminder that she had done her part,
and there remained only that he should fulfill his promise.
She was in heaven!
There was no thought of explanation, no study of phenomena. She knew at
last what sort of miracle Christ came on earth to perform, and what his
kingdom is.
How was her life to proceed? It mattered not. Whatever might happen, all
was well, was more than well, was best! Should she go, or stay in San
Salvador? No matter. She was blest either way.
“And this heaven,” she thought, “lies just outside the door of every
human heart!
“_Behold, I stand at the door and knock._”
How simple is a spiritual miracle, after all! It is but the substitution
of harmony for discord, the finding the keynote of the universe.
Not the least marvelous part of her change was that she recognized this
state as her true one; as one who has long been cramped and bowed down
breathes deep with relief, the pressure removed, and knows that he was
made to stand upright.
No earthly storm clears so. Even when the sun bursts forth, he shows a
rack of flying mists. But Iona no longer thought of a shadow, even as
past. Trouble had no longer any existence, even as fugitive. _In the
twinkling of an eye_, says Saint Paul.
It was early dawn when she issued from the Basilica. Some one was pacing
one of the paths in the green above, but came running down as soon as
she appeared.
“Why, Ion! What brings you here?” his sister exclaimed.
“I could not sleep,” the boy said, trembling. “Oh, Iona, what is the
matter with you? What has happened? Let us both go away from here!”
She put her arms around him. “Dear Ion,” she said, “the brightest, the
sweetest, the most glorious thing has happened! Some time I will tell
you, but not now. Your hair is wet with dew, and your cheeks with tears,
my dearest. Do not fear. All is well! All is well! Do not I look happy?”
“Your face shines!” said Ion, his own growing brighter. “I was afraid.”
“You are to fear no longer. You must go to rest, and then wake happy.
But first let us kiss the panels of the portal; for they have been to me
the gate of heaven.”
They went, hand in hand, knelt on the upper step, and kissed the panels
of the door, then walked in silence across the town. In the dawn, the
face of Iona could be seen radiant with a light that was not of the sky.
It was the outshining of an illuminated soul.
“Brother,” she said, pausing at the door of the Arcade, “what the King
said is not a figure of speech, but literal truth. When he commands, or
invites, do not stop to question. To him there are no impossibilities.
Do not forget him, nor disobey when life is bright; but he is a star,
best seen in the dark. If you should ever be in great anguish, set your
soul searching for Christ, and do not leave off till you find him. He is
near! He is always within call!”
She went upstairs, planning. First sleep. Then this duty, then that,
quite as usual. And every duty, even those heretofore most nearly
irksome, had a new face, smiling and peaceful. Every little weed and
brier of life put forth its blossom.
Reaching Tacita’s door, she stopped; and hearing a movement within, she
whispered:—
“Tacita Mora! O Tacita!”
Tacita was awake. Her heart had been sorely troubled by Iona’s talk the
week before; and her sudden absence had increased the pain. She opened
the door, wondering at that whisper, and shrank on seeing who was there.
“What do you wish for?” she asked, fearing some new and more violent
scene.
“To restore you the peace I have disturbed,” said Iona. “To ask your
forgiveness. All the wild things I said that day were a dark delusive
cloud which has been driven away by sun and wind. I was wrong, and you
right. It is the Holy Saviour himself who will save the refuge they have
named for him. I hope, dear, that you and Dylar will marry, and be
happy; but it would be presuming in me to ask of your intentions.
Peace!”
She went swiftly away before Tacita, astonished, could answer a word.
To be in heaven while yet upon earth, what is it? It is to have a sense
of security which extends to the bounds of conception,—and beyond, a
sense which no peril can disturb. It is to be steeped in a silent
contentment which no words can express. It is to call the bird your
sister, and the sun your brother. It is to study how you may serve those
whom you have hated. It is to say farewell to those who are dearest to
you, and know that they are not lost. It is to see the sorrows of earth
as motes in a sunbeam, yet be full of compassion for the suffering. It
is to know for what purpose you were created.