CHAPTER XX.
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 camefrom 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 offaith. 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 shehadthought, andhadcome, 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. Sheopened 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.