When talking with Cartice one evening, Lilla Joy said: “If we did not know that we outlast death and have endless life before us, Burton and I would end our troubles and our children’s too, perhaps. It would require less courage than we need for one day of life now. But we know that we can’t kill ourselves, however much we might try because there is no death. In spite of bullets, knives, poisons and rivers, we should still be alive, wondering, no doubt, why we were so blind as to think we could destroy that which is indestructible. No; our salvation must be worked out clear to the end, uncomplainingly. We are here to learn, and must stay until we are ready to go higher. At the longest, our probation is short, and it means so much to us. We are building the edifice of character, which is to last for all time. This little chapter of existence is but a day in the great cycle. No; I shall not give up; I shall never despair, let come what may.”
Day succeeded day, but no brighter outlook opened, yet never were they seen with a cloud on their faces. Though their purses were empty, friendship and compassion kept away bitter need, and their spirits were sweet enough to accept the goods the gods sent without letting their pride be wounded. It needs a sweeter spirit to receive than to give.
At last a foothold on the stage was gained for both—an opportunity more likely to increase humility than foster vanity, but they accepted it thankfully, and it led on to better things.
All went well for a time; but one day a telegram came announcing the dangerous illness of their children, who had fallen victims to an epidemic. They went at once. The children died, and a few days later their father also closed his eyes to this world.
Lilla returned to New York to go on with the grim business of life. Was the joy gone from her face? No; it was still there, softened, heightened and illumined by a new and holy light.
“Dear friend,” she said, as she and Cartice talked together on the evening of her return, “there are three new graves in the old cemetery at home, but they do not hold my husband and children. That which each contains is an unreality, a thing never destined to endure,—a garment which the real being wore to make itself seen by our dim eyes. Alice Carey has described it well:
Though you wore something earthly about you
Which once we called you—
A robe all transparent and brightened
With the soul shining through.
But when you had dropped it in going—
’Twas but yours for a day—
Safe back in the bosom of Nature,
We laid it away.
Strewing over it odorous blossoms,
Their perfume to shed:
But you never were buried beneath them,
And never were dead.
“Friends say that I am left alone; but it is not true. I am never alone. There is no separation for those whom love unites. We are one in the universal spirit of love—God. Did not one friend beyond the grave tell us that every death is a resurrection? Is not the stone already rolled away from every sepulchre? Would I call my dear ones back to face the cruel conditions of life here? No, a thousand times no. When I looked at the dead face of my husband, so calm, and profoundly at peace with everything, I said ‘My love, my dear love, heart of my heart and soul of my soul, love of my youth and companion of my spirit forevermore, I thank God that the hard things of the world can hurt you no more.’ The cruelest pang poverty has given me was seeing him bear humiliation and insult in silence, with heavenly patience. Poverty for oneself is bad enough, but when we see those we love suffer because of it, we know exquisite anguish. I can make the fight alone, and it is better so. He is safe. That will sustain me.
“And my children; they, too, are safe. It is well with them. They are not lost. All things we call lost are in the angels’ keeping.
“I shall go on with my work, thankful for the chance, disagreeable as much of it is, because of unavoidable contact with shallow, inferior people. But my true life is away from it all, sacred and safe. There is a reason beyond my fathoming for my being what and where I am. It is all right—all wisely directed, and I shall go on, not sullenly, but in patience and hope. My faith is that all is well. I must live it and not simply talk it.”