Olmedo begged her not to exhaust herself, but to wait until she was more equal to talking. “No, Olmedo, I must tell it now. I am quite strong. Indeed a new life is in my veins, but something bids me be quick. When I closed my eyes it seemed to me I was dead. My spirit slowly left my body, and rested in the air above you, who were watching it so tenderly. How I wanted to embrace you and speak my love, but I could not. Soon a bright form came, so bright that my eyes were at first too dazzled to be able to look upon it. But as that wore off, I knew my sister Domitila, who you remember, died before we left Spain. She welcomed me to my new home, as she called it, and took me away with her. How we went I could not tell, but we were borne on without effort on our own part, by an unseen power, and yet it seemed to come from ourselves. Such scenery, such beauty, those loving faces crying, ‘welcome, dear sister.’ Would that I could describe them. Joy filled my heart. I was amid all things loveliest and best, such as of late you and I have so often faintly conceived as we talked of heaven. Oh! how real they now were! I was a spirit, yet I had a body and senses that gave me exquisite pleasure. Every emotion and effort was increasing happiness. How clearly my soul saw into divine wisdom and love. I thought it strange at first that I did not see the Holy Virgin and the Saints, and asked where they were. ‘Such as we are now they were,’ replied my sister; ‘they have passed on to greater glory through the sure operation of the laws of progress. Ye do wrong on earth to worship those who once were but human beings like yourselves,—whose sole claim to honor is, that they were obedient to the divine will, diligent to understand, and quick to practise. It is because you have lived on earth a blameless life, charitable and useful, enjoying existence, cultivating purity, seeking truth, actively good, and ever aspiring to know the divine will, patient and sincere, through doubt and ignorance trusting in the great good, that you now witness these mysteries. Soon they will be as much yours as mine. Go back to earth and tell your companion what you have seen. He will understand the message. Bid him be patient and zealous, for he has much earthly work yet to do, but for you, my sister, I shall soon return. I have watched over you as you will over Olmedo since we parted in form, striving to impress your heart with the love of our world. It was an easy task, and now it is finished, and we will kneel in future together at the feet of older spirits, to learn of them still further the way of truth and life.’ So saying, she floated away like a sunbeam, and I awoke.
“What think you of it, Olmedo? Was it not sweet? There is no death; joy! joy! Ever shall I watch over you with my sister until you too pass through the gate of heaven. Look! look! there she comes. Oh! how beautiful. Many others are with her now. I see their rainbow robes. I hear their voices,—they call me; oh! listen to the music. Seraphs are striking their harps,—the air is filled with harmony,—do you not hear it too? Where are you, Olmedo? Touch me. I do not see you, but I see them,—that white light,—how glorious all appears; how melodious their speech! I am here, dear sister,—quick,—take me,”—and thus her sweet spirit went home.
Olmedo was stupefied. Not a word had he lost, feebly and brokenly as the last words had been uttered. Yet to see her go from him as her spirit became so ravishingly beautiful, was more than even he could well bear. There she lay in death’s stillness. The sun had gone down, the wind was hushed, her maidens looked on in speechless grief, not a leaf stirred, all was silent,—silent as the grave! No! there is no silence in the grave to the believer.
Before him it is true was the form by which he had known Beatriz, soon to be dust. The eloquent eye, the laughing lip, the blushing cheek were never again in flesh to speak to him. Must we not allow him a moment’s anguish as he heard their silence? Mourn, monk;—thou art still human! Grief is permitted thee. Many and lonely must thy days of pilgrimage yet be!
He shed no tears, but leaned his face on the bosom of the corpse, and there groaned. A light seemed to pass before his eyes. He looked up. “Merciful God, am I too a Spirit?” burst from his lips as he gazed. There, floating in the air, and almost touching him, he saw her he had just lost. She was an angel now. As she smiled upon him, he thought he heard a voice say, “Farewell for a little while,”—and then the stars only were twinkling above him.
CHAPTER XXVII.
“Yet human spirit! bravely hold thy course,
Let virtue teach these faintly to pursue