There is No Death

by Florence Marryat

Oft I breathe thy dear name to the winds passing by,

But thy sweet voice is mute to my bosom's lone sigh.

In the stillness of night when the stars mildly shine,

O! then oft my heart holds communion with thine,

For I feel thou art near, and where'er I may be,

That the Spirit of Love keeps a watch over me."

I had scarcely reached the finish of these lines when both the curtains of the cabinet were drawn apart so sharply that the brass rings rattled on the rod, and John Powles stood before me. Not a face, nor a half-formed figure, nor an apparition that was afraid to pass into the light—but John Powles himself, stalwart and living, who stepped out briskly and took me in his arms and kissed me four or five times, as a long-parted brother might have done; and strange to say, I didn't feel the least surprised at it, but clung to him like a sister. For John Powles had never once kissed me during his lifetime. Although we had lived for four years in the closest intimacy, often under the same roof, we had never indulged in any familiarities. I think men and women were not so lax in their manners then as they are now; at anyrate, the only time I had ever kissed him was when he lay dead, and my husband had told me to do so. And yet it seemed quite natural on meeting him again to kiss him and cry over him. At last I ventured to say, "O, Powles! is this really you?" "Look at me and see for yourself," he answered. I looked up. It was indeed himself. He had possessed very blue eyes in earth life, good features, a florid complexion, auburn hair, and quite a golden beard and moustache. The eyes and hair and features were just the same, only his complexion was paler, and he wore no beard. "O!" I exclaimed, "where is your beard?" "Don't you remember I cut it off just before I left this world?" he said; and then I recalled the fact that he had done so owing to a Government order on the subject.

And bearing on this question I may mention what seems a curious thing—that spirits almost invariably return to earth the first time just as they left it, as though their thoughts at the moment of parting clothed them on their return. This, however, was not John Powles' first attempt at materialization, although it was his first success, for it may be remembered he tried to show himself through Miss Showers, and then he had a beard. However, when I saw him through Miss Berry, he had none, nor did he resume it during my stay in America. When we had got over the excitement of meeting, he began to speak to me of my children, especially of the three who were born before his death, and of whom he had been very fond. He spoke of them all by name, and seemed quite interested in their prospects and affairs. But when I began to speak of other things he stopped me. "I know it all," he said, "I have been with you in spirit through all your trials, and I can never feel the slightest interest in, or affection for, those who caused them. My poor friend, you have indeed had your purgatory upon earth." "But tell me of yourself, dear Powles! Are you quite happy?" I asked him. He paused a moment and then replied, "Quite happy, waiting for you." "Surely you are not suffering still?" I said, "after all these years?" "My dear Florence," he answered, "it takes more than a few years to expiate a life of sin. But I am happier than I was, and every year the burden is lighter, and coming back to you will help me so much."

As he was speaking to me the curtain opened again, and there stood my brother-in-law, Edward Church, not looking down-spirited and miserable, as he had done at Mrs. Eva Hatch's, but bright and smiling, and dressed in evening clothes, as also I perceived, when I had time to think of it, was John Powles. I didn't know which to talk to first, but kept turning from one to the other in a dazed manner. John Powles was telling me that he was preparing my house for me in the Summer Land, and would come to take me over to it when I died, when "Ted" interrupted him. "That ought to have been my work, Bluebell," he said, "only Powles had anticipated me." "I wish I could go back with you both at once, I am sick of this world," I replied. "Ted" threw his arms round me and strained me to his breast. "O! it is so hard to part again. How I wish I could carry you away in my arms to the Summer Land! I should have nothing left to wish for then." "You don't want to come back then, Ted?" I asked him. "Want to come back," he said with a shudder; "not for anything! Why, Bluebell, death is like an operation which you must inevitably undergo, but which you fear because you know so little about it. Well, with me the operation's over. I know the worst, and every day makes the term of punishment shorter. I am thankful I left the earth so soon." "You look just like your old self, Ted," I said; "the same little curls and scrubby little moustache." "Pull them," he answered gaily. "Don't go away, Bluebell, and say they were false and I was Miss Berry dressed up. Feel my biceps," he continued, throwing up his arm as men do, "and feel my heart," placing my hand above it, "feel how it is beating for my sister Bluebell."

I said to John Powles, "I hardly know you in evening costume. I never saw you in it before" (which was true, as all our acquaintance had taken place in India, where the officers are never allowed to appear in anything but uniform, especially in the evenings). "I wish," I continued, "that you would come next time in uniform." "I will try," he replied, and then their time was up for that occasion, and they were obliged to go.