Barbara Who Came Back/Chapter 8

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 and been lost.

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 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 from 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, 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 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 gazed 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 more 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 the 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 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, that yet itself was but a rung in the ladder of many worlds, up which ladder all souls must climb to 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 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 Barbara 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 a 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 that glorious child of hers with whom she walked in this heavenly earth, and whose task it was to instruct her in its simpler mysteries, to live and to repent was 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 of them.

Oh! happy was her life with Anthony, for though now sex, as we know it, had ceased to be, spirit grew ever closer unto 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 shown to them.

In a dream, in 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 manage 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. She 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.

The 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, 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 foul stories.

Their 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 company, 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.”

“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 the 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. “My only comfort,” he muttered to himself as he poured more brandy into the glass, “and yet, 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 out-grew the bad fit and might have become quite a decent fellow. But then I met Bess again on the streets, 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 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’s 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 for 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 was whirled back through nothingness to the hell of earth, there to be born again as the child of the evil woman—that she might save a soul alive.

Thus did the sweet and holy Barbara—Barbara who came back. .