CHAPTER VIII
THE ATONEMENT
Now these are the things that seemed to happen to Barbara after her
earthly death. Or rather some of the things, for most of them have
faded away and been lost to her mortal memory.
Consciousness returned to her, but at first it was consciousness in an
utter dark. Everywhere was blackness, and in it she was quite alone.
The whole universe seemed to centre in her solitary soul. Still she
felt no fear, only a kind of wonder at this infinite blank through
which she was being borne for millions and millions of miles.
Lights began to shine in the blackness like to those of passing ships
upon a midnight sea. Now she was at rest, and the rest was long and
sweet. Every fear and sad thought, every sensation of pain or
discomfort left her. Peace flowed into her.
Presently she became aware of a weight upon her knee, and wondered by
what it could be caused, for it reminded her of something; became
aware also that there was light about her. At length her eyes opened
and she perceived the light, though dimly, and that it was different
to any she had known, purer, more radiant. She perceived also that she
lay upon a low couch, and that the weight upon her knee was caused by
something shaped like the head of a dog. Nay, it /was/ the head of a
dog, and one she knew well, Anthony's dog, that had died upon his bed.
Now she was sure that she dreamed, and in her dream she tried to speak
to the dog. The words that her mind formed were:
"Nell! Is that you, Nell?" but she could not utter them.
Still they were answered, for it appeared to her that the dog thought,
and that she could read its thought, which was:
"Yes, it is I, who though but a dog, having been the last to leave
you, am allowed to be the first to greet you," and it lifted its head
and looked at her with eyes full of a wonderful love.
Her heart went out towards the faithful beast in a kind of rapture,
and her intelligence formed another question, it was:
"Where am I, and if you, a creature, are here, where are the others?"
"Be patient. I only watch you till they come," was the answer.
"Till they come. Till who come?" she murmured.
Something within told her to inquire no more. But oh! was it possible
--was the earth dream coming true?
A long while went by. She looked about her, and understood that she
was lying in a great and beautiful room beneath a dome which seemed to
be fashioned of translucent ivory or alabaster. At the end of the room
were curtains woven of some glittering stuff that gave out light. At
length these curtains were drawn, and through them, bearing a cup in
her hand, passed a shape like to that of a mortal woman, only so
radiant that Barbara knew that had she been alive with the old life
she would have felt afraid.
This shape also was clad in garments that gave out light, and in its
hair were jewelled flowers. It glided to her side and looked at her
with loving, mysterious eyes. Then it held the cup to her lips, and
said, or rather thought, for the speech of that land declared itself
in thought and vision:
"Drink of this new wine."
She drank of the wine, and a wonderful life fell upon her like a
glory.
"Who are you, O Vision?" she asked, and by way of answer there rose up
within her a picture of herself, Barbara, leaning over a cot and
looking at the white face of a dead child in a certain room in London.
Then she knew that this was her daughter, and stretched out her arms
towards her and received her in her arms.
Presently she looked again, and there around the bed appeared four
other shapes of beauty.
"You have forgotten us, Barbara," said one of them, "but we are your
sisters who died in infancy."
For the third time she looked, and behold! kneeling at her side, just
as he had been found kneeling in the church, was her adored father,
grown more young. Once more she looked, and last of all, breathing
ineffable love, came her lost darling, Anthony himself.
From heart to heart flashed their swift thoughts, like lightnings from
cloud to cloud, till all her being was a very sea of joy. Now the
great room was full of presences, and now the curtains were gone and
all space beyond was full of presences, and from that glorious company
of a sudden there arose a song of welcome and beneath the burden of
its sweetness she swooned to sleep.
Barbara dwelt in joy with those she loved and learned many things. She
learned that this sweet new life of hers was what she had fashioned on
the earth with her prayers and strivings; that the seeds of love and
suffering sown down in the world's rank soil had here blossomed to
this perfect flower. Now she knew what was meant by the saying that
the kingdom of Heaven is within you, and by the other saying that as
man sows so shall he reap. She learned that in this world beyond the
world, and that yet itself was but a rung in the ladder of many
universes, up which ladder all souls must climb to the ultimate
judgment, there was sorrow as well as bliss, there were both suffering
and delight.
Here the sinful were brought face to face with the naked horror of
their sins, and from it fled wailing and aghast. Here the cruel, the
covetous, the lustful and the liar were as creatures dragged from
black caverns of darkness into the burning light of day. These yearned
back to their darkness and attained sometimes to other coverings of a
mortal flesh, or to some land of which she had no knowledge. For such
was their fate if in them there was no spark of repentant spirit that
in this new world could be fanned to flame.
Upwards or downwards, such is the law of the universe in which nothing
can stand still. Up from the earth which Barbara had left came the
spirit shape of all that lived and could die, even to that of the
flower. But down to the earth it seemed that much of it was whirled
again, to ascend once more in an age to come, since though the stream
of life pulses continually forward, it has its backwash and its
eddies.
Barbara learned that though it is blessed to die young and sinless,
like to that glorious child of hers with whom she walked in this
heavenly creation, and whose task it was to instruct her in its
simpler mysteries, to live and to repent is yet more blessed. In this
life or in that all have sinned, but not all have repented, and
therefore, it appeared to Barbara, again and again such must know the
burden of the flesh.
Also she saw many wonders and learned many secrets of that vast,
spiritual universe into which this world of ours pours itself day by
day. But if she remembers anything of these she cannot tell them.
Oh! happy was her life with Anthony, for there, though now sex as we
know it had ceased to be, spirit grew ever closer to spirit, and as
below they dreamed and hoped, their union had indeed become an altar
on which Love's perfect fire flamed an offering to Heaven. Happy, too,
was her communion with those other souls that had been mingled in her
lot, and with many more whom she had known aforetime and elsewhere and
long forgotten. For Barbara learned that life is an ancient story of
which we spell out the chapters one by one.
Yet amidst all this joy and all the blessed labours of a hallowed
world in which idleness was not known, nor any weariness in well-
doing, a certain shadow met Barbara whichever way she turned.
"What is it?" asked Anthony, who felt her trouble.
"Our son," she answered, and showed him all the tale, or so much of it
as he did not know, ending, "And I chose to leave him that I might
take my chance of finding you. I died when I might have lived on if I
had so willed. That is my sin and it haunts me."
"We are not the parents of his soul, which is as ancient as our own,
Barbara."
"No, but for a while it was given into my hand and I deserted it, and
now I am afraid. How can I tell what has chanced to the soul of this
son of ours? Here there is no time. I know not if I bade it farewell
yesterday or ten thousand years ago. Long, long since it may have
passed through this world, where it would seem we dwell only with
those whom we seek or who seek us. Or it may abide upon the earth and
there grow foul and hateful. Let us search out the truth, Anthony.
There are those who can open its gates to us if the aim be pure and
good."
"After I died, Barbara, I strove to learn how things went with you,
and strove in vain."
"Not altogether, Anthony, for sometimes you were very near to me, or
so I dreamed. Moreover, the case was different."
"Those who search sometimes find more than they seek, Barbara."
"Doubtless. Still, it is laid on me. Something drives me on."
So by the means appointed they sought to know the truth as to this son
of theirs, and it was decreed that the truth should be known to them.
In a dream, a vision, or perchance in truth--which they never knew--
they were drawn to the world that they had left, and the reek of its
sins and miseries pierced them like a spear.
They stood in the streets of London near to a certain fantastic
gateway that was familiar to them, the gateway of "The Gardens." From
within came sounds of music and revelling, for the season was that of
summer. A woman descended from a carriage. She was finely dressed,
dark and handsome. Barbara knew her at once for the girl Bess Catton,
who alone could control her son in his rages and whom she had
dismissed for her bad conduct. She entered the place and they entered
with her, although she saw them not. Bess sat down, and presently a
man whom she seemed to know drew out of the throng and spoke to her.
He was a tall man of middle age, with heavy eyes. Looking into his
heart, they saw that it was stained with evil. The soul within him lay
asleep, wrapped round with the webs of sin. This man said:
"We are going to have a merry supper, Bess. Come and join us."
"I'd like to well enough," she answered, "for I'm tired of my grand
life; it's too respectable. But suppose that Anthony came along. He's
my lawful spouse, you know. We had words and I told him where I was
going."
"Oh, we'll risk your Anthony! Forget your marriage ring and have a
taste of the good old times."
"All right. I'm not afraid of Anthony, never was, but others are.
Well, it's your look-out."
She went with the man to a pavilion where food was served, and
accompanied him to a room separated by curtains from the main hall. It
had open windows which looked out on to the illuminated garden and the
dancing. In this room, seated round a table, was a company of women
gaudily dressed and painted, and with them were men. One of these was
a mere boy now being drawn into evil for the first time, and Barbara
grieved for him.
These welcomed the woman Bess and her companion noisily, and made room
for them in seats near to the window. Then the meal began, a costly
meal at which not much was eaten but a great deal was drunk. The
revellers grew excited with wine; they made jests and told doubtful
stories.
Barbara's son Anthony entered unobserved and stood with his back
against the curtains. He was a man now, tall, powerful, and in his way
handsome, with hair of a chestnut red. Just then he who had brought
Bess to the supper threw his arm about her and kissed her, whereat she
laughed and the others laughed also.
Anthony sprang forward. The table was overthrown. He seized the man
and shook him. Then he struck him in the face and hurled him through
the open window to the path below. For a few seconds the man lay
there, then rose and ran till presently he vanished beneath the shadow
of some trees. There was tumult and confusion in the room; servants
rushed in, and one of the men, he who seemed to be the host, talked
with them and offered them money. The woman Bess began to revile her
husband.
He took her by the arm and said:
"Will you follow that fellow through the window, or will you come with
me?"
Glancing at him, she saw something in his face that made her silent.
Then they went away together.
The scene changed. Barbara knew that now she saw her Aunt Thompson's
London house. In that drawing-room where she had parted from Mr.
Russell, her son and his wife stood face to face.
"How dare you?" she gasped through her set lips, glaring at him with
fierce eyes.
"How dare /you?/" he answered. "Did I marry you for this? I have given
you everything, my name, the wealth my old aunt left to me; you, you
the peasant's child, the evil woman whom I tried to lift up because I
loved you from the first."
"Then you were a fool for your pains, for such as I can't be lifted
up."
"And you," he went on, unheeding, "go back to your mire and the herd
of your fellow-swine. You ask me how I dare. Go on with these ways,
and I tell you I'll dare a good deal more before I've done. I'll be
rid of you if I must break your neck and hang for it."
"You can't be rid of me. I'm your lawful wife, and you can prove
nothing against me since I married. Do you think I want to be such a
one as that mother of yours, to have children and mope myself to the
grave----"
"You'd best leave my mother out of it, or by the devil that made you
I'll send you after her. Keep her name off your vile lips."
"Why should I? What good did she ever do you? She pretended to be such
a saint, but she hated you, and small wonder, seeing what you were.
Why she even died to be rid of you. Oh, I know all about it, and you
told me as much yourself. If my child is ever born I hope for your
sake it will be such another as you are, or as I am. You can take your
choice," and with a glare of hate she rushed from the room.
On a table near the fireplace stood spirits. The maddened husband went
to them, filled a tumbler half full with brandy, added a little water
and drank it off.
He poured more brandy into the glass and began to think. To Barbara
his mind was as an open book and she read what was passing there. What
she saw were such thoughts as these: "My only comfort, and yet till
within two years ago, whatever else I did, I never touched drink. I
swore to my mother that I never would, and had she been alive
to-day----. But Bess always liked her glass, and drinking alone is no
company. Ah! if my mother had lived everything would have been
different, for I outgrew the bad fit and might have become quite a
decent fellow. But then I met Bess again by chance, and she had the
old hold on me, and there was none to keep me back, and she knew how
to play her fish until I married her. The old aunt never found it out.
If she had I shouldn't have 8,000 pounds a year to-day. I lied to her
about that, and I wonder what she thinks of me now, if she can think
where she is gone. I wonder what my mother thinks also, and my father,
who was a good man by all accounts, though nobody seems to remember
much about him. Supposing that they could see me now, supposing that
they could have been at that supper party and witnessed the conjugal
interview between me and the female creature who is my legal wife,
what would they think? Well, they are dead and can't, for the dead
don't come back. The dead are just a few double handfuls of dirt, no
more, and since no doubt I shall join them before very long, I thank
God for it, or rather I would if there were a God to thank. Here's to
the company of the Dead who will never hear or see or feel anything
more from everlasting to everlasting. Amen."
Then he drank off the second half tumbler of brandy, hid his face in
his hands and began to sob, muttering:
"Mother, why did you leave me? Oh, mother, come back to me, mother,
and save my soul from hell!"
Barbara and Anthony awoke from their dream of the dreadful earth and
looked into each other's hearts.
"It is true," said their hearts, which could not lie, and with those
words all the glory of their state faded to a grey nothingness.
"You have seen and heard," said Barbara. "It was my sin which has
brought this misery on our son, who, had I lived on, might have been
saved. Now through me he is lost, who step by step of his own will
must travel downwards to the last depth, and thence, perhaps, never be
raised again. This is the thing that I have done, yes, I whom blind
judges in the world held to be good."
"I have seen and heard," he answered, "and joy has departed from me.
Yet what wrong have you worked, who did not know?"
"Come, my father," called Barbara to that spirit who in the flesh had
been named Septimus Walrond, "come, you who are holy, and pray that
light may be given to us."
So he came and prayed and from the Heavens above fell a vision in
answer to his prayer. The vision was that of the fate of the soul of
the son of Anthony and Barbara through a thousand, thousand ages that
were to come, and it was a dreadful fate.
"Pray again, my father," said Barbara, "and ask if it may be changed."
So the spirit of Septimus Walrond prayed, and the spirits of his
daughters and of the daughter of Anthony and Barbara prayed with him.
Together they kneeled and prayed to the Glory that shone above.
There came another vision, that of a little child leading a man by the
hand, and the child was Barbara and the man was he who had been her
son. By a long and difficult path--upwards, ever upwards--she led him,
and the end of that path was not seen.
Then these spirits prayed that the meaning of this vision might be
made more clear. But to that prayer there came no answer.
Barbara went apart into a wilderness where thorns grew and there
endured the agony of temptation. On the one hand lay the pure life of
joy which, like the difficult path that had been shown to her, led
upwards, ever upwards to yet greater joy, shared with those she loved.
On the other hand lay the seething hell of Earth, to be once more
endured through many mortal years and--a soul to save alive. None
might counsel her, none might direct her. She must choose and choose
alone. Not in fear of punishment, for this was not possible to her.
Not in hope of glory, for that she must inherit, but only for the
hope's sake that she might--save a soul alive.
Out of her deep heart's infinite love and charity thus she chose in
atonement of her mortal sin. And as she chose the great arc of Heaven
above her, that had been grey and silent, burst to splendour and to
song.
So Barbara for a while bade farewell to those who loved her, bade
farewell to Anthony her heart's heart. Once more, alone, utterly
alone, she laid her on the couch in the great chamber with the
translucent dome and thence her spirit was whirled back through
nothingness to the hell of Earth, there to be born again in the child
of the evil woman, that it might save a soul alive.
Thus did the sweet and holy Barbara--Barbara who came back--in
atonement of her sin.
For her reward, as she fights on in hope, she has memory and such
visions as are written here.
THE END
