CHAPTER III
Virginius soon returned, and with him his wife, whose name I learned soon afterwards was Ursula.
But where had gone that coldness, that almost taciturn manner, and the sternness that had seemed to me his most especial characteristics when on earth? Even that silence, which once in a fit of anger I had termed contemptible, had vanished. Far away from earth and all its unreal glamour and the false shade thrown on the Power of Goodness, he was a different spirit.
Like Plucritus he appeared taller and stronger here, lacking only unnecessary outward show.
And Ursula, like Vestné, was attired in a robe of wondrous loveliness and grace, but, unlike her, her brightness was infectious.
The meal was the gayest I had ever had, the food the most delicious, and from it I rose strengthened, lightened and refreshed, to an extent that hitherto had appeared impossible.
Sunbeam’s tea-cake had disappeared, for all had had a share of it. In appearance it had been very plain, but I think if any confectioner on the earth had learnt the recipe he would have made a fortune and supplied even the most epicurean king.
“Now,” said Virginius, after we had left the table, and gathered round the fire, “I have two presents, one for Sunbeam, and one for you, Genius,” and he brought two small packets from a pocket and handed one to each of us.
“Do you receive nothing, mother?” I asked, for after the first hesitation the sweetest of words slipped out most naturally.
She shook her head and smiled.
“No,” she replied; “when we are married our husbands give us nothing but our children. The risk of getting them is hard enough and dangerous enough to prove to us the strongest love.”
She took Sunbeam on her knee and pressed her cheek against her own.
“This is my present,” she went on, “and it will last me in happiest contentment until I get another. But let me see these other presents, I am curious.”
So Sunbeam opened hers first. It was a coral necklace of pale pink, one of the simplest gifts I had ever seen given to a child. But as soon as she saw it her eyes beamed and the glow of pleasure flushed on her cheeks.
She jumped down and ran across to him, and threw her arms round his neck.
“It’s just like Moonbeam’s. When she sees it she will be as pleased as I. And you really, really brought it from the earth?”
“Really—really. So it’s very precious. I made it myself in spare moments from what material I could get.”
“But how is it you’ve made it just like hers? It is exactly like.”
“Well, I met Moonbeam’s father one day, and he told me he had been making a coral necklace—three plain beads and a rough one—for his little daughter, so I made one for my little daughter too.”
And she kissed him again without any words, but her evident gratitude spoke more than words.
By this I had begun to unfasten my packet. I felt more of an amused pleasure than anything else, as I expected nothing but some trifle, knowing the barren land on which, for the most part, he had worked.
What was my surprise on finding my own ring—the one thing I had prized and lost.
I think amazement must at first have overwhelmed all other feelings, then gratitude, such as I had never felt before.
I glanced over to him. “Thank you,” I murmured, and could find no other words to give expression to my thoughts.
“You thank me for that which is your own,” he smiled.
“But that which was irrevocably lost,” I rejoined.
“I do not think so. It needed one hard struggle to redeem it.”
“And I, alone, was powerless. The struggle, so far as I was concerned, ended in total defeat.”
There was a short silence, then he continued,—
“The highest victories spring from defeat. Give me a soldier who stands on the dead bodies of his failures. When he has conquered failure by something higher than success he has become invincible, and his weakness has become his surest strength.”
“You are pleased to see your ring again?” our mother questioned.
“That scarcely expresses it, I think,” and I looked at it, and saw the many-coloured tints sparkling radiantly, as if appreciating their own return. The scarlet bloodstones had left my hand as I passed hell’s threshold, and now I replaced my own ring on the accustomed finger. I noticed one stone was missing from the centre, but chose rather not to mention it, feeling such gratitude for the ring itself.
“Is it complete?” our mother asked.
“One stone is missing.”
“Do you grieve for it?”
“How can I grieve?”
“They had disarranged the centre setting,” she replied, “and we were unacquainted with its previous shape, so we kept the stone apart. Here, you will do it best yourself.”
She handed over to me the central opal—the missing stone.
“Nay,” said I, “you will please me best by keeping it. It is not much, but if you will accept it my happiness will be complete.”
She gazed at me with that curious, unfathomable light I had sometimes seen shining in Vestné’s eyes when in a gentler mood.
“Are you willing to sacrifice so fine a stone?” she queried.
“If you put it in that light, you do me an honour of which I am unworthy. Take it as a gift, if you will be so kind, and do not mar its beauty with the shade of sacrifice.”
“But if I take it the after-events may be somewhat awkward,” she observed curiously.
I shook my head.
“Nothing could be awkward that lay in your possession.”
“I am to have a gift as well then?” she said.
“If you will honour it with the name.”
She laughed softly.
“You have given me simple trust,” she went on. “I will try to repay it by accepting this, for trust is more to me than admiration, or power, or wealth, or anything beside.” After a pause she continued: “There is one point about which I am curious. Your book—do you still wish that it should succeed?”
“You call it my book, but it is not mine. It belongs entirely to the writer.”
“The writer has given it up.”
“Burnt it?” said I, and I learnt from my own voice that annoyance is not an unknown quantity, even in heaven.
She shook her head and laughed.
“By no means. The writer says the book belongs to you, and would never presume to such an act. It is simply recognised as a failure, as undoubtedly it is.”
“Then,” said I, “I am afraid I have made you a very worthless present, since the stone is the emblem of the book.”
“I am fond of worthless presents. I am fond of failures. I am fond of rejections. You know the old story of the stone which the builders rejected, and it has always held good from then to now. We are very clever, we can make so much out of nothing. Sometimes, of course, the giver has to wait for many years, till the last great failure, death, has been accomplished, and I have known a man who, when shown his own worthless gifts in after times, took them to be amongst the most precious heaven held; and when their history was unfolded to him one big tear of thankfulness rolled from his glistening eyes, and fell, a diamond of rare price—another gift in lieu of that which we returned to him. Whatever is brought to us can never fall fruitlessly. We accept everything that is given in purity and truth, and set it out to gain the interest that it merits.”
“Then you accept my gift?”
“Undoubtedly. It has been offered to others before, but they could see no merit in it. I think even once it was offered as a sacrifice, but that would have been a very unpleasant thing, for earth has a generous heart. But we in heaven can afford to be cruel, selfish, jealous of our power and influence, vindictive when ill-pleased, anything, everything, so long as in the end we get our way, thus turning the ill-wind into fair, to please an intellect that cannot comprehend us.”
“You speak in riddles.”
“The language of spirits and of God, who never yet spoke plainly, in order to have the after-pleasure of upbraiding those dull pupils who could not understand.”
Whilst we had been speaking Sunbeam and Virginius had been much engrossed at the further end of the room, for on leaving the tea-table we had come to one which seemed much generally used.
She was showing him a very dainty pair of slippers, and they were admiring them together.
“I finished the embroidery this afternoon when Genius fell asleep the second time. To-night I’m going to put the soles on. They are all pricked ready for sewing.”
“And when they are finished, what then?”
“Mother said you would take them with you to the earth, to fit on the tired feet of some poor dancer she had heard about. It’s like this, you see, father. When you put them on at first they will hurt more and more, till they get right on, and then they will fit so beautifully that the pain will be forgotten, and they will bring lightness and joy, and even happiness, instead of heaviness and sorrow.”
“And my task is to get a certain dancer to wear them?”
She glanced at him and scanned his face earnestly.
“Yes,” she replied.
“And in case I fail?”
“Then they’ll have to come back again, just as all the other things do. The other day Moonbeam’s father came home for a little while, and he brought a very wonderful pair of spectacles which he said a friend of his, an optician who lived in our great city, had given him. He let both of us look through them, and when you looked through them you could see on to the earth. At the place where he let us look there was what they call a Rummage Sale going on, and a great many women were buying rubbish, real rubbish from other women, who took their money quite cheerfully and persuaded them to buy still more. And just outside the building where it was being held there was another stall, and it was covered with the most precious things, as we esteem them, that wealth could buy. But no one ever touched it or went near to take anything, and Moonbeam’s father said perhaps they were too honest, as they hadn’t the right kind of wealth to purchase with.”
“It was rather a sad scene to show you,” said Virginius, “but still a very true one.”
“Moonbeam’s father explained it very thoughtfully and kindly to them,” observed our mother to me. “The Rummage Sale was a large Charity bazaar, and the honesty he gave them credit for was blindness of heart, which changes into hardness.”
“Are they not very young to learn the darkness of the world?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“You forget. They have been through all its toil, and littleness, and hardened drudgery before. Heaven with its greater happiness has still its greater sorrow. We can employ no sentiment in bringing up our young. True love springs from no artificial root, and half its strength is spent in yearning sorrow. I think after that he showed them some rosy babies lying fast asleep, and one tiny mite being washed and put to bed, and then the mother knelt beside its cot and prayed, and Moonbeam threw a rosebud down, and the little baby laughed and held its hands to catch the pretty flower, and the good mother felt her prayer was answered.”
“Who is Moonbeam?” I queried.
“She is Sunbeam’s friend. They play and work together. To-morrow you will see her. When on earth hers was a sad and uncongenial life, yet she was uncomplaining. And finding heaven while still on earth she gained sweetness where bitterness might else have fallen. But whilst those two are talking and planning for the welfare of everyone except themselves, shall you and I go and view my lumber-room, or store-room I had rather call it, where I keep my useless gifts?”
Most willingly I went with her, passing from the lower storey to one higher, to a more distant part of the house, filled with the quietness and rest of sleep.
The misty light of night swept through the open windows, and its cool refreshing breath played round us as we went. She stood before a door and opened it, and beckoned me to follow.
We had come to a vestibule covered with pure crystal glass; the view without was beautiful, for on one side sloped the grand scenes of Heaven, and on the other those of Hell. Who would have thought such dissimilar things could seem so much alike?
“What is the difference between these two kingdoms?” I asked.
“A very simple one,” she answered. “There is no difference, they are both alike.”
I shook my head.
“Surely not,” I said.
“Then we will say the principle is different and for the present let it rest. Now tell me, if you can, what the first sensation following failure is?”
“I should say darkness.”
She smiled and opened the inner door, and we were greeted with a flood of light.
She passed in and I followed, and the door closed behind us.
Light and music greeted us on every side, coming from some invisible source. Divided off in glass cases and partitions by themselves were the works of the poor creatures who had failed, not of one class only, but of all.
“These are only the outward crusts and shells,” she said. “We make more use of the inner essences. Those we appropriate within ourselves to bring in future time to full perfection. But these are undergoing here a perfect change from dark to light. Here is something brought to me the other day, the outward husk of marriage, that seeming bright like some pure brilliant flower at outset turned to soft dust and black decay, slipping from out the hopeful grasp. It is at present very dull and dark, with no shape and quite devoid of beauty, but with time, and the treatment we shall give it, it will alter, and when the owner sees it once again it will be a thing of rare beauty, a priceless jewel above mortal worth. Here is another that has almost come to the true length of time. You will perceive how the golden rays have become worked into it till its dull hue has changed to brilliancy. So do they all alter.”
“And this music—from whence does it spring?”
“It is the lonely sighing of poor prisoners—the weakening sobs, the painful gasps—yes, and those bitter cries that only spirits ever hear aright.”
“Then,” said I, “you accept all failures.”
“Yes,” she asserted, “but there is one great point to be remembered—they must come to us, we cannot go to them. Till they have stretched out the first weak hand in supplication, till that weak cry for heavenly help has reached our ears, we are powerless—powerless as they.”
“This place contains nothing but material failures,” I continued.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that failure with regard to temptation is not included amongst these.”
“They are all here. When anybody having entered on the heavenly path slips down from weariness or weakness, or maybe from dejection, but with the pilgrim’s steadfastness of purpose struggles up again, we take the failures and count them to their after-glory though they must suffer at the time. Few men have ever yet reached heaven without hard falls; they are their strong experiences. On the other hand, that does not include those who are always down; the man who slips each time temptation is presented is no use to us. His vain repetitions and idle sighs affect neither himself nor us. He, as it were, would buy heaven with dross, and hire another soldier to do the fighting for him.”
“I heard you speak of the heavenly, not the narrow path just now. The expression, I think, is much more suitable.”
“Yes, indeed. Could they but see, it is the narrow path that ofttimes leads to hell—the narrow path of self that hides all breadth and height. Our path is not narrow, though at times it may be steep—very steep, and perhaps obscure.”
We looked round for some time, learning the histories of men and women, those dark skeletons in the cupboard that sap away life and youth. Yet of all cheerful places I had ever visited this was the most so; and well it might be, such things of precious beauty were being wrought from dull wreck and despair.
“Where is my gift destined to be placed?” I asked, as we moved once more toward the door.
She took it from the folds of her dress and looked at it.
“It is not dark,” she said. “It shines as usual. Are you quite sure it is a failure? You may have given me a gift that still had worth. How terrible that would be!”
I laughed.
“I am afraid it would never have met with much approval. I can quite see myself that, judged from some points, it might be called extravagant.”
“Now,” she cried, putting her hand upon my arm, “I’ll give you a little piece of advice, a real piece of worldly wisdom.”
“What is it?”
“Never admit yourself to be in the wrong.”
“But—” I began.
“No ‘buts.’ Never admit yourself to be in the wrong. I’ll give you another piece of advice too. If anyone says anything to you about your book, tell them they must be terribly dull of comprehension. It was simply written as a caricature of everything but goodness.”
“You know more about it than I do myself.”
“No, I don’t. But you forget. You’ve had so much of the cramping pain of failure since, that you forget the pleasant hours you spent when it was being written. I remember one night, after the little house was quiet, and you had gone away, Plucritus took one of those books and turned the leaves up to a certain page.
“‘Look here, Virginius,’ he exclaimed, ‘is this meant for me?’
“Now my husband, though most serious as a rule when down on earth, could not repress a smile, and I, in heaven, listening, laughed aloud in pure amusement, unmindful of the darkening future.
“‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘But I think there is a resemblance somewhere.’
“‘Then,’ said Plucritus, ‘if this fool understands me no better than this it’s time her eyes were opened.’
“I ceased to laugh, for I had known him many centuries, and though at times generous enough and noble enough when dealing with us, I have never known him relent one atom in his dealing with humanity.
“‘You should blame Genius,’ urged my husband.
“‘Oh! I will blame as many as you wish. The more the merrier. Will you give me his address?’
“‘I do not know it,’ Virginius replied.
“‘Perhaps when this comes out he will take refuge with you.’
“‘We are not a Camp of Refuge,’ Virginius rejoined coldly. ‘Simply a haven of comparative rest.’
“‘You are lying,’ retorted Plucritus, abruptly. ‘You know more about him than you will confess.’
“‘I know nothing more than you yourself.’
“But dear me!” she broke off suddenly, “there I am wandering away from my subject, and talking about muddling identities, instead of proceeding with my own advice. What was I saying? That you had forgotten the moral of your story. But you have given the book to me, and I shall preserve the moral at any cost; and at the same time I shall remember my duty towards my neighbour and compose an eleventh commandment to suit my own requirements.”
“And what will that be?”
“Well, it will run something after this line: ‘Thou shalt not step upon thy neighbour’s boots, nor his toes, nor his corns. Thou shalt not take to thyself thy neighbour’s likeness, nor his voice, nor his mannerisms, nor anything that is his. Thou shalt not take the words any more than the bread out of thy neighbour’s mouth.’”
“Thank you,” said I, “that will do. Your eleventh commandment seems rather comprehensive and one long hit against me.”
“I’m glad you see it at last,” she went on. “You were trying to pluck the mote out of your brother’s eye without perceiving the beam in your own.”
“Well, it’s a common enough failing. But what about your advice? Am I still to maintain that I was in the right?”
She put her head very gravely on one side.
“Well, no. You must never stick to a hard-and-fast line. If I were you I should go to my brother and I should say, ‘Look here. The beam has clean gone out of my eye, let me proceed to gently eradicate the mote from yours.’”
“He would be very pliable, I don’t doubt.”
“Yes. But if he seemed unconvinced I should continue thus: ‘Brother, the beam which filled my eye was composed chiefly of ignorance and selfishness, though, being blind, I could not see it, and the mote in yours is composed chiefly of vanity and conceit, though, being blind, you cannot see it either.’”
I opened my eyes.
“Did you say I was to call him ‘Brother’?” I asked.
“Undoubtedly.”
“The result of that speech would be anything but brotherly.”
“Why not? Is he then so irreproachable that he is above criticism?”
“I know nothing about him,” I replied. “I can only apologise for coming in his way and promise the offence shall never be repeated.”
“But how do you know you ever did come in his way?”
“I do not know. I imagined it for the most part. That needs another apology.”
“And once you said that no apology was needed.”
“I believe I did. But I was speaking on the side of prejudice.”
For some minutes she was silent, then moved along.
“Perhaps you are wisest,” she said. “We will let the matter be.”
We rejoined the others. Sunbeam was now engaged on hemming a handkerchief.
“It’s for someone who is suffering,” she explained to me as supper was being prepared. “Father will take it with him when he goes and wipes the tears from their eyes. Every stitch is made of Love, and the fabric is of Peace.”