CHAPTER II. - A MINISTERING ANGEL

 

SHE entered the room gently; when about midway paused, and her soft, loving eyes rested upon mine. She looked slightly like a nurse, but much more resembled a Sister of Charity.

 

Her dress was of some soft, silver-grey material, and hung in graceful folds about her dainty, rounded form. She wore a pretty white lace cap on her head, and her dress was partly concealed under a large white apron.

 

She stood looking at me with gentle, pitiful eyes, her white hands folded.

 

"You are not Mrs. Babbitt," I said, in surprise, but please tell my husband I want him. Are you one of the Sisters of Charity?"

 

"I hope you will find me a charitable sister," she replied, with a sweet smile.

 

Are you come to take Mrs. Babbitt's place?" I asked. "O, I suppose she is all worn out with watching."

 

"I will gladly take Mrs. Babbitt's place," she said, "and try to fill it, if possible. Perhaps I may be able to please you better, even, than Mrs. Babbitt."

 

"Mrs. Babbitt has been very kind and good, am sorry she has become so weary with watching; besides, she has taken nearly all the care of the children. But where am I? Why don't my husband come to me? How was I ever removed to this place without knowing it? I must have been unconscious a long time to have been carried about in this way; but, perhaps, the doctor put me under the influence of ether: think I am not free from it yet: feel very light: don't remember of taking ether, although, perhaps, he gave it to me when I was in the faint. But, really, I don't understand it all. Franz did not tell me that I was to be moved. Am not finding any fault with the place; it is very beautiful; but I had much rather be at home. My babies do not disturb me at all, and it comforts me in my sickness to be near them. Am afraid I shall not see my husband as often as I should if I were at home. O! had much rather be at home! Should get well sooner, I am certain."

I began to feel pettish and homesick at all this strangeness and secrecy.

"Is my husband here?" I asked, rather sharply.

"He is not," she replied, her lips slightly trembling, and I saw tears in her beautiful eyes as she raised them to

mine.

"Why has he left me? Am sure I never needed him more. It is very unlike him."

"He has not left you, my dear; it is you who have left him."

"But he must have sent me hither. I cannot understand why he does not remain with me."

"He would gladly remain with you if it were possible," she replied.

"But I do not understand why it is not possible. He had nothing special to keep him away from me, and the last

words I can remember of his saying, were, that he certainly would not leave me."

As I said this I threw myself down in the bed, covered my eyes with my hands, and burst into tears.

Softly the nurse, as I shall call her, approached the bed; she gently took one of my hands away from my eyes, and began to stroke it with great gentleness: this soothed me: she then did the same with the other. She placed her hand on my forehead, and again I raised myself, looking at her earnestly.

 

"What is it you have to tell me I questioned." I know there is something very strange that is being kept from me. Tell me—oh, tell me at once! Relieve my suspense."

 

"Mary," she replied, "you must be strong, and prepare yourself to bear a heavy blow."

 

She pressed both my hands to her breast lovingly, and then said.

 

"You are not on the earth any longer, dear Mary, but have been removed to one of the mansions in heaven."

 

I shrieked out wildly in my surprise—in my horror!

 

"You do not mean to tell me—you cannot mean to tell me, that I am dead—that my little babies are left motherless, and my husband without his wife?

 

"O God!" I cried, "heaven would be a hell separated from my darlings," and I sobbed and shrieked aloud in my despair.

 

The nurse sat with folded hands and drooping head. A thought struck me. I started up again and looked eagerly around.

 

"You are deceiving me!" I exclaimed. "For some reason, which I do not understand, am being deceived. How can you have the effrontery to tell me that I am dead, when you must know, as well as myself, that I have eyes, and they can see": and I allowed my glance to rest on the pictures in their golden frames, then on each piece of furniture in turn. "How can you tell me that I am dead, and in heaven, when you must know that I can see all these things in this room as well as you can; besides, the room itself, the walls, the ceiling, the window with its curtains; surely, I must have been put in some insane asylum, and you are one of the lunatics instead of a nurse, as I thought you. But if I have been a little delirious, owing to my severe illness, am entirely recovered now, and can see this room with all its, furniture, and clearly comprehend as well as I could when in the best of health."

 

The nurse raised her beautiful eyes to my face, and tears trembled on the long lashes.

 

"Mary," she said, in a voice so soft and gentle that the sound alone soothed my irritation, "I have spoken the truth. You have been removed, by death, from earth, and are now within the realm of spirit, or within the spiritual world."

 

Dear reader, this was long before Spiritualism was known, and I, for one, had never heard of such a thing. I had been educated, entirely, in the Catholic religion, and thought there was a heaven, a hell, and purgatory: this room, so very much like a nice room of earth, could neither be in heaven, nor hell, nor yet in purgatory; at least, this was the way I thought.

 

"You say I am dead. If this is the case, to which place have I been consigned, heaven or purgatory? For, of course, this cannot be hell, and it is altogether too pretty for purgatory. To be in purgatory must be an unhappy condition, and you do not look unhappy." I did not yet believe that I was dead.

 

"Suppose, then, dear Mary, I tell you that you are in heaven, for you cannot yet understand anything about the world of spirits."

 

"You can never make me believe," I replied, "that this room is heaven. If this is heaven, why do not I see God, the Saviour, the blessed Virgin, and all the holy Apostles and Saints? Why do not I hear them praising God, making heaven resound with their songs and music? Where are the golden streets, the great white throne, the thronging multitude of the redeemed and blessed?"

 

"Mary," she asked, "if you could be in a place of that description, would you then be content to leave your little children and your husband?"

 

This brought me to my real sense once more.

 

"No, no! A thousand times no! I cried. Was only asking you why I did not see these things, if, as you say, I am dead?"

 

"Mary," she said gently, "you are dead, as you call it, but such things as you mention do not exist."

 

I stared at her in horror and surprise.

 

"Do not exist?" I cried out. "Do not exist? But God exists, certainly?"

 

"God exists," she replied, "but not as a person seated on a throne. We are taught here that God is all things— all that is material, all that is spiritual, all that is angelic. All that is, all that ever was, all that ever shall be; and, that there never was a beginning, that there can never be an ending. So, dear Mary, when I told you that—you were in one of the mansions of heaven, I told you the truth."

 

Still I was incredulous.

 

"But," I said, "they don't have beds, chairs, sofas, pictures, and windows in heaven."

 

"Well, dearest Mary, tell me, then, what they do have? or, if you prefer, I will tell you what you have been taught that they have in heaven. First, a throne; second, streets paved with gold; third, harps; fourth, crowns of gold; fifth, the branches of green palm trees; sixth, long white robes or dresses. Now, Mary, this bed, on which you are lying, is just as reasonable, real, and, at present, far more convenient for your weak and spiritually ignorant condition, than the sight of a throne would be. If there could be a throne in heaven, could there not be beds as well? Which, dear Mary, would suit you best just now, this pretty room with its white satin-covered furniture, or streets paved with gold? Is it more unreasonable? How much better suited to your present condition. Is the furniture of this room more strange than harps of gold? Would a crown of gold suit you better than those pictures, of your loved ones, hanging on the wall? Are the walls themselves more strange than the gates of heaven would be? Are not these flowers more beautiful than the branches of the palm? This room has white lace hangings, and you are clothed in a beautiful white robe suitable for your present state. Are these any more wonderful or unreasonable than the long white robes in which you have believed "?

 

I sat up in the bed and stared at her dumbly.

 

"Then, am I not to see the blessed Virgin?" I, at length, asked; for, was beginning to believe that I was dead.

 

"You may at some future time, if you so desire, meet the mother of Jesus of Nazareth. She is not called the blessed Virgin here. She was not a virgin at the time spoken of in the Bible: she was a mother, dear Mary, as you are a mother; a blessed mother, as you are a blessed mother; and I know that you will agree with me, that it is far better to be a blessed mother than it is to be a blessed virgin."

 

But where is the Saviour, and the Saints?" I asked. "Am I not to see them?"

 

"Every mother on earth, or in the heavens, is a saviour," she replied. "The mothers are saviours, and not the sons; yet you may at length see Jesus if you wish; as for the saints, the so-called saints are all here, but very many of the lowly on earth, and here, are more saintly and worthy of heaven than the most of the regularly calendered saints."

I sighed heavily as I asked:

Then what kind of life have I come to?

"A very beautiful life," she replied., "But, my sweet one, you are entirely unprepared for this life, at present, and have so much to learn that you will never be able to cease learning. There is no end to the knowledge that will be yours, as time goes on."

"Would you not like to get out of bed?" she asked, with a bright smile. "You know it has been many days since you were up and walking about."

My heart leaped joyfully.

"O, can I? Am I able to sit up? It seems as though that alone would be heaven to me just now, am so weary of being sick and lying in bed."

 

"Let me help you," said my sweet nurse. She clasped both my hands within her own, and I rose up light as a thistle-down, a heavenly elixir running through all my being. She placed me in the large chair, then seated herself on a low cushion at my feet, leaning her beautiful arm on my knees. I felt a little faint, for this was the first time I had sat up for weeks. My eyes naturally closed for a few moments, and then my mind rushed back to my husband and children. I involuntarily cried out:

 

"O! am I never to see you any more, My darlings? Am I really dead and separated from you?" and a great wave of sorrowful emotion shook me; my eyes flew open, and the sweet orbs of my nurse were looking hopefully into mine. A sudden inspiration seized me and I cried:

 

"You have told me so many strange things, perhaps there are other things equally as strange, such as ghosts. You know I have always heard about ghosts ever since I can remember—how those who are dead appear to the living. Can I make myself a ghost and appear to my husband and children?—and I tightened my grasp on her hands in my eagerness.

"Then we can go where they are," I cried; can see my little babies once more? O! tell me! O! I know we can! I see it in your eyes.

 

"Yes," she answered, "we can. Ar'nt you glad? You are beginning to like this heaven much better than you would that other heaven, are you not?

 

"O, yes—yes! if I can go from this place to see my husband and children. How soon can we go? Am very impatient!"

 

"Just as soon as you are strong enough," she replied. "But you have not been here more than an hour, and the), are all weeping so bitterly over your worn form, which is devoid of yourself, we had better wait a few hours more; you will then be stronger and they will have had time to become more calm."

 

I was so delighted by the thought of returning that I readily acquiesced.

 

"Mary," she said, "you have not asked me about the friends whom you have here. Are there none of those, who departed the earth-life, you would like to see?"