CHAPTER II
To this dawn at the close of day I too had come. In weariness and weakness I had fallen down, unable of myself to reach that which I saw before me. I had remembrance of nothing more; I fell, and the blank rest of sleep, or death, sank numbly on the silent path. To sleep—to rise; to die—to live again, so came this life to me, falling in pain, in weakness, in dull doubt, inwoven with one silver thread—the joining link to heaven.
But what a sweet awakening! Never rose skylark in the summer air so free of care and pain as I—every hanging weight of hell had fallen like death’s bands, snapped by a living power. Soft, gentle, thrilling life was round me, busy and free from every worrying thought, and though I heard no music the very air was filled with hidden sound of life and love and freedom, true music of the soul and surest balm.
Still, from an adjoining chamber came the dreamy hum of the busy spinning-wheel, but because I was tired my eyes were closed, and I lay listening to the soothing sound. I felt no wish to stir, since weakness was being repaired by strength, which had in it nothing but life and purity, the strongest framework ever built.
So I lay, half sleeping, half awake, till roused by a voice speaking in the room without.
“Mother, give me a pearl, I’ve got to the ninth stitch.”
The voice awoke me to the life around. In some ways it was a child’s voice, yet filled with such sweet wisdom and clear cadence that never child on earth spoke like it.
The wheel stopped.
“Which is it, pink or white?”
“Pink this time. Look.”
In both voices there was a similarity, but one was fuller, richer, with a sweetness childhood never yet could give a voice, however pure.
“When you have put it in, go once more and see if our guest has wakened.”
“And may I take the flowers and fruit?”
I think she must have answered by a nod, for the wheel went on once more till interrupted by the childish voice again.
“The last time I went in he was quite fast asleep. I put a lily in his hand, but he never noticed it. Then I climbed upon the bed and kissed his brow, but it was cold, colder than anything about here. I took his hand and pressed it in both mine, but it was stiff and fell from mine as if I never held it. Then I sang one of my songs, one father taught me when I was very small, and soon I thought he looked as if he listened; but perhaps it was only thought, because when I stooped and whispered, ‘Did you hear?’ he answered not at all.”
The other laughed—a laugh so full of mirth and pure delight that, forgetting, I laughed too, but being intent on their conversation they heard not.
“Well, we cannot blame you, Sunbeam, you did your best, and failed. But this time when you go, if he is asleep you may shake him gently, it is time he was awake.”
Soon after I heard soft footsteps stealing to the door, and my first notion was to close my eyes and feign sleep once more. But I recognised that deception was perhaps a thing unknown even in trifles where children were concerned, so I sat up, feeling no giddiness after the long rest.
I remember the first glance she gave as she peeped round the door was one of curiosity to see if I were still asleep, but seeing me awake she stepped back, and then came forward hesitating, almost shyly.
Here was a miniature vision of loveliness, with a face so fair and tender, and eyes so true and clear, that it did one good to look at her. And so I felt, for out of pure light spirits I laughed aloud.
“Why do you laugh?” she asked, looking up with pardonable surprise to be thus greeted after so long a silence.
“I laugh to think I had almost begun our friendship with a crime.”
“What is that?” she returned.
“I do not know. You have made me forget.”
She looked at me with evident and curious interest for some little time, holding the flowers in one hand and in the other a dish of fruit, till at last she observed,—
“Don’t they ever kiss each other where you come from?”
At a hint so broad I had no further excuse for not extending such a simple salutation. So I stooped and kissed her, and lifted her up with her various gifts beside me on the bed.
She took some of the fruit in her hand and held it to me.
“Eat this,” she bade me. “It will make you strong.”
So I ate it, and she watched me with as tender a solicitude as any mother might have done.
“You should eat too,” I urged. But she shook her head.
“I’d rather watch you,” she remarked, “for you need it and I don’t.”
“Do you never eat for the pleasure of eating?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, sometimes. Sometimes when father comes home and we have just finished a meal, we all begin again. And then I forget I’ve had anything before and eat just twice as much—at least mother says so, and she knows everything.”
“And who is your father?” I asked.
“He is my father,” she answered, glancing at me. “He carried you here on a fearful stormy night just lately. And he was very tired, though he is very, very strong, and mother made some food for strengthening him, because he had not been home for a long, long time, and in the wilderness there is very little to be had. Afterwards they went away together, and left me here to look after you, and father said I might sing to you and kiss you, and that would make you well again. Our friends used to come in to watch you too, and we never left you quite alone. Then mother came back, and she kissed me and took me on her knee and cried a little, and I cried also because she did; and then she kissed me again and laughed, and so did I, and she was happy, very, very happy, and said that father was coming home soon and would be able to stay a while.”
As she spoke her eyes shone into mine with a pure radiance.
“I love for him to come home,” she said. “I love for us all to be together;” and suddenly she put her arms round my neck and nestled towards me with a sigh from which even childhood could not drive all the lingering sadness.
“Well, well,” I assured her, “he will be home soon. Think of all the nice times you will have together.” But this form of solace was cut short by her mother coming to the door.
She carried in her hand a steaming bowl of something which was like milk, but this I did not notice till she brought it forward and drew attention to it.
To behold her was in itself enough for me.
She wore a simple robe of pale soft green with no ornament, but she needed none. A figure more brilliantly light and beautiful I never saw, nor a face more perfect in expression and in shape. Yet I do not think it was her beauty that ever impressed my mind, it was the tender grace and motherly sweetness which went with her. One could not be ill nor spiritless where such a being moved, her health and lightness were infectious.
“Sunbeam will be happy now,” she said as she came forward. “Chatterboxes always like companions.”
And she sat down beside us and gave the basin into my hand.
“Indeed, yes,” I went on. “In this short time I have become acquainted with my past history from a certain fall up to the present, and that was very interesting naturally.”
“You are looking wonderfully well after your long sleep,” she said.
“Perhaps we all need rest occasionally. I feel different. As if I had thrown off a kind of hanging fever and were strong again.”
“When you have taken that,” she observed, indicating the bowl, “you will feel stronger still. You will sleep again in a little while, and after that you will be able to get up.”
Sunbeam clapped her hands.
“Why are you so happy, little mite?” I asked, for she was no higher than a child of seven and as fragile as she was fair.
“I was thinking we should walk together in the gardens now and then,” she replied, and this simple pleasure seemed a great delight to her.
“How long am I to be your guest?” I queried.
The mother shook her head and smiled.
“I think we shall keep you always, till you care to leave us,” she said. “At any rate, I do not think there is any immediate prospect of your going away.”
“I think I shall thrive better here than in Hell,” I affirmed. “I cannot tell whether it was rapid or slow consumption I suffered from when there.”
She gazed at me with eyes which had changed to sad sincerity.
“It was lack of all nourishment,” she declared. “It kills the strongest and the weakest off in time. After all, death is the greatest mercy when it comes, though at the time it seems the hardest pain.”
“You know something about it then?” I asked in some surprise. I had thought such a fair being would have been spared such knowledge.
She laughed.
“Well, I know just a little about most things,” she said, “so perhaps I am not altogether such a charming creature as I appear to be.”
“On the contrary, I find you much more—” And then I stopped. The word “charming” did not suit her, and I could find no other.
“You are at a loss for a word already,” she interposed lightly. “Let us put our heads together, Sunbeam, and think of a word to describe us both, but it sha’n’t be ‘sympathetic,’ for that would make us pale and interesting at once.”
“But,” I ventured, “sympathy is reckoned a great thing on the earth just now.”
“You don’t know,” she rejoined, shaking her head. “You haven’t been there for some time, and fashions alter quickly. For aught you know, Tact may be dead, and she is the mother of Sympathy, and orphans rarely thrive in your world.”
“You speak rather disrespectfully of both of them,” said I.
She looked across at me with a curious mixture of amusement and seriousness.
“Well, my husband tells me about them sometimes, and I generally go by what he says, for he states plain facts.”
“He is not prejudiced?”
She shook her head. “It would not do for us to be prejudiced,” she corrected. “It is a failing of mortals, not of spirits. And, even reckoned by the world’s standpoint, we should lose more by it than even you do.”
By this I had given the bowl back to her, and when she had done speaking she rose and lifted Sunbeam to the ground. “We shall leave you to rest a little longer,” she said, “then perhaps you will join us later.”
And they went out together and left me. With a sigh of contentment I lay back and almost immediately fell asleep once more. When I awoke the room was darkening, and stars were beginning to shine without.
But a soft, clear light shone from the ceiling, and by this I rose.
“Now,” thought I, as the clear water of life dashed over me, giving freshness and vigour to every nerve, “I wonder if these people will remark about my plain apparel as the last did.” And I went back into the bedroom.
Behold! there upon the sofa, by the window, was a civic robe and outer mantle of such exquisite beauty, yet so simply made, that I went nearer to inspect it.
“This, undoubtedly,” thought I, “will just fit me. And were it not meant for me it would not be here.” Whereupon I took it up and put it on. It fitted with an ease and nicety which surprised me.
“They must have taken my measurements before,” thought I, and laughed. “And if for nothing else, I am obliged to wear it out of compliment.”
A large mirror stood in the wall, and chancing to look in it I was most fully satisfied with my appearance, which might, of course, be prejudice.
Thus attired I went out along a short corridor which led from my room into one fitted up with curious spinning-wheels. They were all silent now, and no one was there, but from the open windows came the sweet, sad song of even, the birds twittering in the neighbouring trees, and the stillness that comes with night. The polished floor shone under the rays of a pale crescent moon which reflected the shadow of a tall poplar across the room. I stood still and viewed it, and then passed on to a door at the farther end.
When I opened it a flood of light burst from a wide corridor, having doors up either side of it and at the farther end a staircase leading down. To this I went and passed down, much struck with the resemblance between this and the home of Plucritus, in outward things at least. But with what change of feeling I walked along these halls! Light expectancy took the place of dull disinterestedness, and cheerfulness the place of hard despair.
On the lower step Sunbeam sat, reading a book and I realised with startling vividness the difference between her and the creature I had once beheld in the halls of Hell. As I drew near she shut the book and ran up the few remaining steps to meet me.
“We’re having three extra things for tea,” she murmured confidentially, “because you are here. And mother has had word that father may be home in time for it too.” She held my hand and danced down in the best of good spirits by my side.
She led me to the room where tea was laid, and the greatest things I noticed were cheerfulness and comfort round about.
A glorious fire was burning, for it was that time of year when the air was very sharp, and in front of it a noble hound was lying fast asleep.
The table had been laid with the brightness characteristic of all well-laid tea-tables. Yet never before had I looked forward with such enjoyment to a meal.
The room was empty when we entered, so Sunbeam took the opportunity to explain a few facts.
“That is quite extra,” she said, pointing with a decided finger to a salad. “And so is that,” and she next indicated a fine salmon. “And this cake is just the same as we have on birthdays—only it’s no one’s birthday to-day, unless you’d like to call it yours.”
I assented, and looking round saw on a plate a small bun which, to do it justice, had not quite the elegance which characterised the other eatables.
I noticed that Sunbeam’s eyes dwelt lovingly in that direction.
“I made that,” she explained. “It’s quite fresh to-day. I’ve made one ever so long, hoping father would come home. He doesn’t know I can bake yet, we’ve kept it quite a secret.”
“Is this a special treat for him then?” I asked, scarcely able to keep back a smile.
“Yes,” she answered, nodding eagerly, and then she went and sat beside the dog on the floor.
“This is father’s dog,” said she. “Sometimes it goes away with him. It is very faithful, and once it got caught in a trap and was stolen. But after a while it got away and came back again. It was so weak that it could scarcely crawl to the outer gates, and then it fell down, for it couldn’t come any farther by itself.”
“Who had stolen it?” I inquired.
She shook her head.
“I don’t know. I can’t quite understand. They must have been very ignorant, mustn’t they?”
“Why?”
“Well, you see, when you steal it means you take something that doesn’t belong to you by mistake.”
“Oh,” said I, and waited for further instruction.
“Yes, it means you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Ah!”
“If you only go on thinking, and rub your eyes a bit now and again to make more sure, you’ll find out.”
“But,” I suggested, filled with a very laudable desire to learn further, “you might take something that belonged to someone else knowingly.”
She looked up at me, and presently shook her head seriously.
“Oh, no, you wouldn’t.”
“But why?”
“Well, how could you? Wouldn’t you feel queer inside?”
“I might not. Would you?”
“Of course. Why, at that rate we should be no better than the poor people living on earth, who are for the most part all born blind.”
She jumped up and came back to me, and those pure eyes of hers were fixed longingly on mine.
“I should love to go to earth and kiss their eyes all open,” she cried. “And so would Moonbeam too. But we’re too young yet—far too young. Sometimes, but only just sometimes, mother has gone, and then she kisses them, and then they hear the angels sing, and see the lights of heaven. Mother kissed you before she went away, and it is that which made you begin to get better again.”
Just then the hound sprang up listening, and bounded towards the door and out into the hall. Sunbeam, understanding its joyous bark, ran after it. Next I heard the loving welcome, the nearest link that earth and heaven have.
“Father!” Such a thrill of pure love ran through the word that in it one learnt the whole inner secret of heaven. The least vibration of that tender, passionate voice could have moved anything but hard, sodden earth, too dull to understand its influence.
Soon afterwards they entered by the open door, he carrying her on his shoulder, and no queen ever seated on a golden throne looked half so happy or so proud as she.
There then I saw, or thought I saw, for the first time my rescuer, clad in strong, linked armour, such as Plucritus wore, that was all ablaze with light as his had been; not the light that dazzled, but that which made more clear. Now as I still looked I recognised him with a surprise as genuine as it was delightful.
“Virginius!”
“Genius!” He came forward extending his hand, with equally genuine pleasure, though less surprise than I had shown.
“You did not expect to see me?”
“You are so altered I did not know you.”
“In some ways I may say the same of you. Yet one can always trace a likeness in one’s friends—however much they alter outwardly.”
“You honour me with the name of friend,” I said, for I remembered our parting in the past had been short and cold.
“Yes,” he confirmed, “I think I am almost willing to take your old advice and form the alliance, the one of which you spoke.”
I laughed.
“I am afraid at present I am little use, being no better than an invalid, and in my poverty reduced to borrowed garments, as you see.”
He glanced at me, then shook his head.
“We neither lend nor borrow here,” he said. “What you have is yours by right—a right stronger than ever money gave.”
Sunbeam then joined in the conversation for the first time.
“Mother made it from the pattern you sent her. I helped her to blend the coloured silken threads, and those of gold and silver.”
Virginius put Sunbeam down.
“You will excuse me a little while. This is scarcely the attire for a peaceful meal, but I shall soon be back again.”
Once more we were left again together, but Sunbeam’s face by this time matched her name.
She went to the table and began pulling the chairs to their right places. She touched almost every teaspoon and knife with a kind of loving, restless touch, as if she would fain have put some of her own feeling into them; lastly, she got up on a chair and cast a critical eye on the self-made bun.
“Would you leave it?” she inquired of me.
“Why not? Certainly I should.”
“But it’s not quite as pretty as the things mother makes.”
“Well, you could hardly expect that.”
“No. Of course not.”
Then, once having settled that question, she came back to me.
“Have you known father long?” she asked.
“Yes. A very long time in some ways, a very short one in others.”
“You never met anyone quite the same, did you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Where is your father?” she questioned suddenly.
“I don’t think I ever had one,” I answered.
“Not a father? But whom does your mother live with?”
“I have no mother.”
“No mother? Oh, dear!” and she turned her head away and dashed away a tear. But I laughed, the sympathy was so unexpected and, I thought, unnecessary.
“You need not cry about it. Never having known them I have never missed them.”
“Yes, you have,” she cried, and with a sudden vehemence quite out of keeping with her looks. “When you have no father nor mother there’s a big blank, though you may try to think there isn’t.”
“What do you know about it?” said I, still laughing.
“I know,” she replied, looking up, “because I know a lot of things in a way. But,” she added after a pause, “you may have mine if you like.”
“But,” I went on, “they would scarcely love me as they love you, and might not want to have such an increase in their family.”
“They would love you,” she asserted, taking my hand in hers, “just as much as they love me. And I should be your sister, and you would have no end of friends.”
“Do friends mean happiness?”
“Yes, they mean more love.”
“Not more expense?”
“I never heard the word before, not in connection with a friend,” and thus our conversation ended.