CHAPTER IV
The next morning I was up with the light. I went downstairs and through the open door into the cheerful gardens.
Freshness and beauty reigned on all things. The early morning scent of flowers, the bright singing of the birds, the glorious sunlight responded like youth’s freshest friends to my clear spirits.
I walked amongst the beds of springing flowers and by the shade of noble trees till suddenly I saw Sunbeam coming dancing lightly down the shining lawn. Her hands were waving in the air, her simple, graceful garments floated like her hair upon the breeze, and round her, like a cloud of beauty, butterflies were wheeling, dancing as she danced, as if she were their sun.
She was a gentle, lovely child, free from sin and pangs of earthly sorrow, yet feeling to her inmost being the tenderest love for all things.
“Good-morning,” she greeted, and held her face up for the kiss which she evidently thought so much of.
“Good-morning. Are these your friends?”
“Yes. We have come to dance for you. Every morning in the early sunlight we do the same. We call it the ‘Butterfly’s Dance’; I sing and they make the music with their wings.”
“Where did they come from?” I asked, for they were brilliant, lovely creatures, larger than ordinary, and with colours clear as light.
“Well, they came from earth for the most part. They had pins stuck through them by people who wanted to find out what they were like, and some were caught, and crushed, or starved by school boys and girls. When they died they came to us, and now they’re happy.”
The dance began. And the singing and the music and the dancing were infectious. I began to whistle, and continued from sheer light-heartedness. When it ended the butterflies flew about across the gardens seeking their breakfast from the flowers and golden fruits, and she and I together walked towards the house.
We were met at the door by Virginius.
“This afternoon we are going to the city. Mother says you may come, Sunbeam, if you care to.”
“Is she going?”
“Yes.”
“And Moonbeam, may she come?”
“I don’t know. What will her people do without her?”
“Oh! they won’t mind just for a little while.”
“Then you’d better run across after breakfast and ask.”
I noticed that in the breakfast-room there were all the daily papers of all lands, as there had been in Hell. Also that there were numerous letters, and one for me.
It was unexpected, but most pleasant. When one has not received a letter for a long time it is appreciated, even when the handwriting is unrecognisable. On opening and reading it I found a simple invitation enclosed to the city of which Virginius had spoken.
“We always accept invitations,” remarked our mother. “That letter means you will be welcome to any house throughout the length and breadth of it. We are going amongst friends, so that though there may be none of the excitement of seeing one’s enemies, the pleasure fully compensates for it.”
“May I ask you a serious question?” I said, as the meal continued.
“Certainly.”
“Have you any title? Are you known on earth at all by the name of Saint?”
She shook her head.
“No, I don’t think so. I rarely go there. I should have been a saint, I think, but I missed it by one solitary laugh. You see, I am so very old that when I was young we had to educate ourselves. Now I, being very foolish, thought it was only wrong to laugh at age, or weakness, or pain, or infirmity of some sort. And one day I laughed at the High Priest; he looked so different in his robes from what he did without them. No one ever forgave me, not even the great absolver himself. So I walked through life quite solitary, and was not sorry when I came to die.”
“But in heaven they received you?”
“Yes. The next thing I remember was, I was running about gardens similar to ours, quite young again. When I was old enough to marry my husband said he was pleased I escaped the Saintship, as it made me more pliable in disposition. I thought he meant to imply I had no stamina, and so we quarrelled. It was our first and most delightful quarrel; I can remember every word of it to this day, though I believe it is quite three thousand years ago.”
“You acknowledge quarrelling to be legitimate?”
“Of course, provided it is carried on on a right principle, but otherwise it becomes a very deadly and terrible thing. We have had one such quarrel in heaven, and its results have been such as to cause widespread grief; if possible we would avoid another.”
When breakfast was over Virginius left us, as he said, to write letters. I, having no such thing to do, asked Sunbeam to show me the gardens. But this was evidently contrary to the general arrangements for the day.
“I can’t go out to play till the work is done,” she said.
“But there is no work to do.”
“Mother! mother! he says there’s no work to do.”
“Well, we must always allow for ignorance in visitors,” and touching a spring in the wall the top of the table suddenly glided away with all its contents.
“Now,” she remarked, turning to me, “would you like to go and see our kitchens, or would you rather stay and amuse yourself alone till the work is done?”
“I will come,” I assented.
So together we went.
The work here—the manual work—was very quickly and simply done. But cookery in their hands became a fine art. The room in which this branch of the daily industry was carried on was built of a kind of transparent alabaster. The stoves were constructed of a substance like silver; and the bowls, rolling-pins, spoons and knives were in themselves works of art. The walls were lined with cupboards or safes, and it was from these that our mother took all the ingredients that she needed.
I watched the process of preparation with interest. She evidently understood the mysteries of celestial cookery to perfection, for in an incredibly short time she had prepared an excellent lunch. She also had a very wonderful creative power, as I noticed that all the dishes were made out of pure essences or elements crushed to fine powder like crystal salt.
One dish I watched with special interest. She had taken a fine white powder and put it in a silver bowl. This she mixed with some other ingredients in less quantities. Then over the whole there was sprinkled a pure liquid which turned the whole mass to the palest shade of pink. Then, with a few dexterous turns of a special knife, the mixture began to fall in light flakes. To this some drops of oil that fell like crystal were added. It was left to stand in a refrigerator, whilst she prepared, on a polished framework, a shape of silver scales, tinted in parts with bluish grey. This done she returned to the hardened mass and moulded it with marvellous exactness to the form which she required. Over this, as a dainty covering, she folded the shining scales, and with the insertion of two softened jewels there appeared a fish so fine and real that not the most expert could ever have told it had not been caught in pure river water. She then took it to a stove and placed it where it was held in position by silver spikes. On touching a spring the stove was filled with light heat. “We never use fire,” she said, smiling. “I leave this here now, and it remains till wanted. The light gradually works its way through the whole, and then it has become what you call cooked to a nicety. Next, by a very exact mathematical process, this screw turns again, and the unnecessary light is cut off. But the light which has entered, and the heat, still remains within the body. Thus when required it is in perfect readiness, so that everything being properly cooked—that is, full of light—we never have heavy food, and so are spared the pangs of indigestion.”
“You have a wonderful cookery-book,” said I.
She laughed.
“A good cook is a born artist, who can put the spirit of taste into his work,” she declared. “You little thought last night when you partook of that fair salmon that you were not partaker in the murderer’s spoil.”
“Indeed, I remarked upon the delicacy of flavour.”
“I know.”
Thus was every dish prepared with a quickness and perfection very marvellous, so that as I watched I began to feel an appetite for dinner, though breakfast was just over.
“There is not much to be done in this line to-day,” she observed, “for this afternoon we go to the city. According to our time, I generally spend one hour a day upon it, unless I am trying some new recipe or making an experiment.”
And it seemed that in a marvellously short time there had appeared some of the daintiest dishes imaginable, savoury and sweet.
Sunbeam, in the meantime, had been busy rearranging the table which had passed here from yesterday’s dining-room, so she told me. She and I together went to gather flowers and fruit, whilst our mother went to make the beds. I remembered that Vestné had performed these offices every morning and alone. I found myself wondering vaguely had she loved her work as much as these, and then I recollected that she must have done, because often from the open windows I had heard her singing gaily, though the songs had brought no happiness to me.
“Which is your favourite flower?” asked Sunbeam.
“Lily of the valley.”
“Then we’ll gather that.”
“Which is your favourite?”
“Red roses,” she replied. “Moonbeam likes white ones, and chrysanthemums.”
“You have not been to see her yet?”
“No. But I’m going when the work is done.”
So we gathered red roses and white, and lily of the valley, and chrysanthemums, and green foliage, and carried them back to the house.
We arranged the flowers between us, she and I, and were so absorbed that neither of us spoke.
After a while we were joined by Virginius.
“What kind of fruit are we going to have for dinner, Sunbeam?” he asked.
“Gooseberries,” she answered, and laughed. “You had better come to help us to gather them, and then we shall be sooner done.”
“If it is to be gooseberries,” he went on, “we will come out to gather and eat them. Strawberries are best on a plate with cream, but gooseberries are best when picked from a tree.”
Just then our mother entered.
“There,” she cried, “I knew there would be little work done when I was away. Where is the fruit, Sunbeam? You have brought nothing but flowers.”
“It’s gooseberries,” she said, looking up from a bowl of dark roses. “Father says he’s going to eat his out in the garden after.”
“And are we all to do so?”
“Yes, unless you want something else. I’ll go and gather it if you want something else.”
“Oh, no. I think you had better run over and see Moonbeam now; and listen, Sunbeam, give them my love and say I should be very pleased if Moonbeam might be allowed to come and spend a little time in the city with us.”
“Genius is going with me, and we’ll wait and bring her back with us if she can come.”
So together we went, and as we crossed the gardens and the park many gentle animals bounded over our path. Tall deer that had been hunted in the chase, squirrels and timid rabbits, birds of all kinds and countries, horses and cattle grazing on rich slopes, and young lambs frisking over golden lawns, forgetful of the sacrifice of their young lives for man.
How joyous and how free from fear their lives were here! The squirrels bounded along the track in front of us; the deer stared at us lazily as we passed; the birds flew from branch to branch, following our steps with music.
“You are never quite alone then, even when you walk,” I began at last.
“Not unless I want to be. We have to be alone sometimes, you know; if we weren’t we should never grow.”
“And you like being alone?”
“Yes. Up to a certain point it is the best thing for all of us, mother says.”
“Do you go to school, Sunbeam?”
“No. We never go till we are old enough.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“We never go till we are about fifteen.”
“And your boys, when do they go?”
“At the same age.”
“Don’t they get out of bounds and management by that time?” I asked.
“Oh, no—why should they?”
“I don’t know. I imagined it was best for a boy to go to school when he was seven, and stay there, generally speaking, till he was past twenty.”
Sunbeam laughed. “He’ll be very wise when he comes out of school,” she said. “We take a five years’ course, boys and girls alike.”
“Do you attend the same schools?”
“Oh, no. We don’t even learn the same lessons. But you’ll have to ask mother or father about school. They know more about it than I do, because they’ve been.”
“Is your education finished when you are twenty?” I continued.
“Oh, no! Mother says it’s only just begun.”
“Still,” said I, “don’t your boys get rather spoilt staying at home till that age? There is so little for them to do.”
“They help with the housework,” she rejoined.
“And do they like it?”
“Of course. It’s their duty. If you cannot work in the house you’ll never work out of it—not in a proper spirit.”
“What is their work in the house?”
“Well, it’s the usual work that you’ve seen going on this morning, and anything else that may occur. Then, of course, we have lessons with our mothers, and they take up the afternoons, and the evenings from tea to bed-time we have entirely to ourselves.”
“And which part of the day do you like best?”
“I don’t know. I like them all.”
“You have no sisters or brothers?” I questioned.
She shook her head thoughtfully.
“I have one sister,” she answered. “But at times she goes away and leaves us, and we are lonely till she comes again. Moonbeam used to have a brother, but he went away to school a long time ago. He used to be very good at making beds.”
“Making beds!” I repeated.
“Why not?” she inquired.
“Nothing, nothing. I thought it rather a curious occupation.”
“We don’t know him very well,” she continued, scarcely noticing my last remark. “He went away to school in the city long before Moonbeam was born, and she is older than I even. He used always to make the beds at home before he went, and when he went they missed him so much that his mother wrote to tell him she hadn’t slept for two nights, everything seemed so strange, and not near so comfortable. Well, when he got that letter he was sitting at breakfast with the rest, and suddenly he just put his head down on the table and cried.”
“But why?”
“Well, don’t you see, it had been his secret. When he had the time to himself at night he’d been thinking and thinking about it all, and he’d tried one thing and then he’d tried another.”
“Do you mean he had concentrated all his energies on bed-making?”
“Yes, and he never knew it had had the least effect, because no one had ever said a word to him.”
“Not even his mother?”
Sunbeam laughed.
“Oh, no. Why should she? She pretended she knew nothing about it till he had gone. Well, when they all saw him crying they thought he was putting it on, as he was given to a great many antics, but the master, who was sitting at the top of the table, was cleverer than the boys, and when the meal was over he sent for him and he asked him why he cried. Then he showed him the letter, and he read it through, and then he said to him, ‘You may make my bed as well as your own if you care to.’
“For he knew it is the best to do things for others. It is how we reach perfection, when we have learnt by simplicity to trust ourselves. And that was just what he had been longing for, yet had never liked to ask, for he had never had anything else to make but his own bed since coming from home.”
“Well, what is the end of this long story?” I asked.
“Well, the end of it is,” she answered very seriously, “he’s the best bed-maker in this particular kingdom of Heaven.”
I sat down on the trunk of a tree to laugh and stare at her.
But nothing ever seriously disturbed Sunbeam; instead, she sat on the grass and laughed too.
“Do you think it funny?” she asked.
“Why, yes,” I said.
“Tell me why,” she enjoined, half laughing, half serious. “Mother says we’re none the worse for seeing the funny side of things, but sometimes I can’t find it, and she says we ought not to strain after anything.”
“Well—” I began.
“Go on.”
“Well—” I began again.
“Well what?”
“Well, really, I think I must have fallen into the absurdity of laughing at nothing.”
“You can’t,” flashed Sunbeam with some heat.
“I can account for my amusement in no other way,” I returned.
“If you won’t tell me,” she cried with more warmth than before, “I won’t kiss you again for a week, and that will be just as disagreeable for you as for me.”
Then she jumped up and came to me coaxingly.
“Come along, Genius,” she urged, “just do tell me what you were laughing at. You wouldn’t laugh at nothing. Nobody ever does.”
“Well,” I began, heroically casting about for an explanation, “you see you said he was the best bed-maker as proudly as if you had said he was the best general, or the best cricketer, or the finest sportsman, or—or—the truth is, Sunbeam, you were thinking of one thing and I was thinking of another.”
“Is that why you laughed?”
“I am afraid there was no other reason.”
“What’s a general?” she inquired presently.
“A soldier,” I answered, walking on again.
“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.