VI

THE HOUSE OF SORROW

PROLOGUE

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THE traveller looked about him. The glorious sunlight of the preceding day had gone; glittering greenery that had frolicked with the breeze was no longer to be seen. The trees along the roadside were gnarled, stunted, sombre; the bushes were scarcely more than brambles. Bleakness covered everything. Grass, such as it was, showed itself only in patches; the soil was stony, the air chill.

The traveller wrapped his cloak about him. Whether his senses were sharpened by the dreariness of his surroundings, or whether they instinctively sought a new object for their attention, he could not say; but be became aware, gradually, as a sound sleeper slowly wakes to the things about his bed, of some one beside him, travelling the same way, taking, it seemed, even steps with himself. He felt no surprise, but rather as

if he were picking up a memory that had been lying just under the surface of consciousness, as if he ought to have known that some one had been beside him for an indefinite time.

The traveller walked on for a while in silence; and then, overcome half by curiosity, half by a mixture of resentment and suspicion, turned and demanded a little curtly where the other was going.

"I am going your way," replied the stranger, and the two walked on together, side by side.

"I beg your pardon," said the traveller, "but I know, as I am immersed in my own thoughts, that I cannot be an acceptable companion. We had better journey singly; I will go ahead or fall behind, as you as you choose."

"I prefer to keep even pace," answered the other.

Hardly knowing whether or not to be offended, the traveller hesitated; should he go ahead or fall behind? But, though he could not tell why, he did neither; he kept on the same road at the same pace, step by step, with his companion.

The landscape grew still more desolate; the earth seemed hostile to vegetable life. A rare tree, here and there, shook its barren branches; prickly things rendered the walking difficult.

The traveller thought to himself: "I will turn round and go back, and so I shall both leave this detestable place and escape from this importunate companion."

The stranger spoke up: "No, let us keep on together."

The traveller started, and making a feeble attempt to smile, said, "You seem to be a mindreader." He decided to stop at once; nevertheless he continued to keep on the same road at the same pace. Then he thought, forgetting that he had not spoken aloud, "It was not polite in me to let him know that I wished to shake myself free of his company. I will quietly turn off to the right or left."

"No, let us keep on the same road," repeated the stranger.

At this the traveller contained himself no longer, but burst out, almost angrily, "Who are you?"

"I am the Spirit of Life," answered the other; "you and I are journeying together."

The traveller did not understand what the stranger meant; but he was aware of a bitter chill in the air and of still greater desolation all about, and he determined to cast manners to the wind and run for it; but no, his feet kept on the same way, at the same pace.

"Be not impatient," said his companion, "this is our road."

The chill struck through the traveller's cloak, his fingers trembled with cold, but he kept on. As they crossed the brow of a low hill they saw a great, gloomy building lying before them. The traveller thought of fortresses and prisons in foreign lands that he had read of.

"I shall turn here and go back," he cried, amazed at the foolish terror of his imagination. "We must go on," replied the stranger.

They were now close under the shadow of the building.

"What is this abhorrent place?" asked the traveller.

"This," answered his companion, taking the traveller's arm, "is the House of Sorrow."

The traveller felt a sword pierce his heart, yet his footsteps did not fail; for, against his will, the Spirit of Life bore him up. He went on with even step, and the two crossed the threshold.

I

They that have experienced a great sorrow are born again. The world they are now in is quite different from their old world. In that earlier world they lived upon terms of household familiar

I

ity with Joy and Felicity; now they must lie down by the side of Sorrow and eat with Sorrow beside them at the board. Outward things may assert their identity to eye, to ear, to touch, but outward things cannot deceive the spirit within; the House of Sorrow is strange, all its furniture is strange, and the newcomer must learn anew how to live.

The first lesson is to accept the past as a beautiful day that is done, as the loveliness of a rose that has withered away. The object of our yearning has passed from the world of actual contacts into the world of art. Memory may paint the picture as it will, drop out all shadows and catch the beauty of our exquisite loss in all the golden glow of human happiness. There, within the shrine prepared by Sorrow, that picture will ever refresh us and bless us. Evil cannot touch it, nor ill-will, nor envy, nor sordid care; only our own faithlessness, our own acceptance of unworthy things, can stain the freshness of its beauty. Sorrow has constituted us the sacristans of this shrine; on us rests the care of this pictured relic, and, unless we suffer motes and beams to get in our eyes, it will remain as bright in the sanctuary of memory as in the sunshine of earthly life.