The Island And The Main Land

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Title:     The Island And The Main Land
Author: Elizabeth Rundle Charles [More Titles by Charles]

On the night when the old man, the messenger of glad tidings, was borne away, the mother and her children, turning sadly back, from watching him depart, to the blank his going left in the cottage, found that he had left with them a scroll. With trembling expectation they unrolled it, and read. It contained further revelations concerning the King's ship (they would call it the Black Ship no more), and the land to which it bore those for whom it was sent.

The Island was not a detached land set in the midst of a lonely sea. It was a fragment of a great Continent, broken off from the Main Land by some convulsion, long ago. And from this Continent it was divided, not by broad spaces of the heaving ocean, but by a mere strait, in some places narrowed to a chasm of seething waters, in others spreading into a calm lagoon, but everywhere, in itself, quite insignificant.

The Island lay in a land-locked Bay of the great Continent, encompassed on all sides by its Highlands. The little hills, which its inhabitants called mountains, were girt around by the magnificent mountain-ranges of the Main Land. Its colonial settlements, which the dwellers in them called cities, were commanded from the other side by the glorious cities of the kingdom. Its islanders, who called themselves "the world," were compassed about by the victorious ones now at home in the great true world across the waters.

Not only had the King's Son come and reconciled the islanders to the King; not only did He Himself come and receive each one who trusted Him to Himself, making the Black Ship, for all such, no more a phantom of terror, but the messenger of infinite joy; He had not withdrawn Himself to a distance. The mountains where He dwelt rose close above the Island where He had tarried and suffered and overcome, compassing it about on every side. From their heights every nook of the Island was visible to Him, every work of His faithful ones was watched. They were only concealed by a thin but opaque veil of mist, which brooded unceasingly over the strait. This mist was the great mystery of the Island, absolutely impenetrable to all its inhabitants, but from the other side altogether transparent. There were indeed moments when, to the eyes of those who watched some best-beloved borne away from them, this mist became translucent (though not transparent) even in the Island. But once beyond it, once on the other side; once within it, even, on the crossing, it was seen to be absolutely nothing.

Many a creek in the Island itself was wider and more difficult to cross than the strait which divided it from the Main Land. Only, no one could cross that strait at his own will, at his own time, or in his own way.

Not that the crossing was equally calm for all. Some passed over softly across the sunlit lagoon; some in the rush of the surf boiling through the narrow chasm. But, for all, the crossing was but a moment. And for those who, in that moment, on this side, for the first time met the eyes that had been watching them so long across the sea, who can utter what the revelations of that moment were!

The hills of the Fatherland stood round about the Island. The towers of the golden city were watch-towers; at the gates those who had entered in were waiting in joyful expectation,--at the pearly gates, open day and night, from which the songs of welcome had never time to die away, so constantly were the new citizens entering there.

All through the night the mother and sister listened with rapt attention as the brother read. Very much of the scroll contained simple every-day directions as to what was the King's will for the daily living of His subjects. But these, at that time, the three glanced hastily over, as interruptions to the great revelation of the things unseen.

The lifting of the veil had given them such a longing to see it lifted further! The Hand that had raised it had so evidently moved from within, and from above; the veil was so evidently rent from top to bottom; the glimpses were so manifestly glimpses of continuous depths of light, of a full world of wonders, all fully open to the eyes of Him that had given those glimpses, that who could say what else might be made known? Why not more? Why not all?

And as they read and listened, marvellous gleams came. Every now and then the curtain of mist seemed to rise. Fold behind fold the mountain landscape of the Better Country deepened beyond them; depth above depth they saw into its heavens of light. In a rapture of awe they seemed to stand on the threshold of the opening door of a Temple, as if at last all were about to become clear. But almost in the same instant the mist was there again, and the glorious vision vanished.

Marvellous, it seemed, to learn so much, compared with the blank before, and yet so little compared with what might have been revealed. So that first night of revelations passed, and the morning dawned. The three laid down the scroll and went out to the beach before the cottage.

How wonderfully everything had changed to them since the previous night!

As they had read and listened in eager expectation through the night, every now and then a disappointment had crept over them that so much should be left untold; but now as they stepped out over the familiar threshold on the familiar beach, for the first time they understood how much had been revealed, and how marvellously everything was transfigured to them. The world had grown so infinitely larger; the island so infinitely less!

The island, which had been their world, seemed to have shrunk and shrivelled to a mere rocky peak, where some shipwrecked company had found a transient refuge, and where they were merely awaiting the vessel which was to take them thence.

As the dawn flushed over what they had been used to call mountains, the vision of the glorious mountain-ranges beyond and above them seemed to dwarf them into sand-banks. When the dawn grew into practical day, and the busy hum of labour and traffic came from the White Town across the creek, and eager voices began to resound along the shore, the three looked at one another with smiles that said, "Why make they this ado?" And when, with much pomp and circumstance, the attendants of one of the Town authorities escorted him with trumpets and banners past the Cottage, and all the dwellers in the neighbouring cottages made obeisance as they passed, and eagerly gazed after the pageant,--to the three whose eyes were opened it seemed like some game of little children playing at being kings and princes.

At first, on the discovery of the true proportion between the Island and the Main Land, everything was swallowed up in the sense of that proportion; or rather, of that tremendous disproportion. The Island dwindled to a mere speck. It was as if they had fallen asleep on what they believed to be terra firma, and wakened up on a raft with nothing but a few planks between them and the fathomless depths on every side.

For one thing, both from the old man's words and from the scroll, was absolutely clear.

Everywhere, everywhere, above that brooding mist, on high, commanding all they did, were towering at that moment the Everlasting Hills.

Somewhere, somewhere, behind that impenetrable veil (impenetrable only to eyes on this side of it), were flashing the towers of the Golden City, were standing open the pearly gates, were echoing in the tones of dear familiar voices, the welcomes which never die away along those happy shores, as the echoes of the partings never die from these. Somewhere, not afar off, the eyes of the Deliverer and the King were watching them.

And no one in that region knew of it but those three, standing together alone by the cottage threshold.

Every one, indeed, knew of the Black Ship. That was but too obvious to all. But who entertains longer than can be helped the thought of an inevitable misery?

Once transmute this fact of sorrow into a revelation of joy, and surely every one would delight to keep it in view.

In the first fervent joy of the discovery of that great Continent of life lying close around them unseen, nothing seemed worth doing but either to tell every one of it, or themselves to watch if perchance some glimpses of it might be vouchsafed to their own eager gaze.

Hope chose the first part of the work. The mother and the maiden the second.

With a pilgrim's wallet hastily filled with such provision as was ready, and with his staff in his hand, Hope went joyously forth, while the mother and sister followed him with their eyes until he waved a farewell to them from the edge of a cliff and they turned back to the cottage.

Months passed by ere they met again. Meantime the mother and sister kept ceaseless watch by the shore. Every night they lingered, longing that the veil of daylight, whose withdrawing revealed to them the stars, and all the hidden world of night, might enable them to pierce that other veil which hid a world always there, and so much nearer, and so much more their own.

Every morning they rose with the earliest dawn, hoping that the morning winds might rend some little rift in the curtain of mist, and give if but one glimpse of the everlasting hills which were so surely rising at that very hour crowned with sunlight above. When a tempest swept across the sea they rejoiced; for in the scroll there were strange hints of a day when all at once, in the twinkling of an eye, the whole intervening volume of mist should be broken up and swept aside, and through the glorious break should come, not one dark, mysterious, solitary ship, for one solitary emigrant, but the whole array of the King's armies, and at their head the Prince, the Deliverer, and with Him all the beloved who had gone before to Him.

And who could say which thunders and lightnings might be the heralds of that liberating storm?

Nor did the mother and daughter remain always alone. The fire of that joy was one that could not burn in any heart without shining, and many a mourner gathered around the cottage threshold to listen to their tidings and to share their vigils. Together they looked towards the Fatherland. And as they gazed, their longings broke into song.

"Come," they sang, in low chants. "Come, O King! why tarriest Thou? Thou hast suffered and overcome! Thou hast won us back, and Thou wilt take us Home. Since we have heard of Thee, what can we do but long for Thee? Since we have learned of our home, what do we here any longer? Since we know where our beloved are gone, how can we bear this exile any more? Exiles on this broken fragment of thy Land, which is ours,--why dost Thou keep us here? All beautiful sights and sounds, henceforth, to us are but faint echoes of our home-music; and but fill us with home-sickness. The mountains of our home stand round about us, and we know it. How can we rest longer on these shores of exile? Exile is for those whose hearts are estranged from Thee. Our hearts are won back to Thee, Deliverer and King. When wilt Thou come for us and take us Home?"

Thus, gradually the songs which had begun as songs of triumph fell into a minor, and became songs of exile. The restlessness of unsatisfied longing crept over the joy of discovery. Many abandoned the common round of life. Tents arose on the hill-sides, whose inmates, forsaking the Island treasures which had become to them such baubles, and the pursuit of those Island ambitions which had become to them so childish, lived only to gaze towards that mountain-range of their home which was encircling them unseen, and to watch for the breaking of the mist.

These the mother and sister might have joined, but for their waiting for the brother's return.

At last, in the twilight of a winter's evening, he came back, weary and worn.

The three sat together once more around the cottage hearth. A chill of unconfessed disappointment brooded over them all, like the mist itself which brooded around their Island; and they sat silent.

Weary and worn the mother and sister had expected to see him, footsore with travel, with cheeks hollow with scanty food, and perchance a form wasted by hard usage; for should the servant be greater than his lord? But in his eyes there was a look of unrest and despondency that scarcely fitted a messenger of glad tidings.

"My son," said the mother at length, laying her hand on the hand with which he had covered his brow, "we could not hope that all would welcome the great news. All did not listen even to Him!"

"It is not that," he answered, "that disquiets me. I want to be sure we are doing what He meant. Hundreds have listened. In some cities whole streets are unpeopled by the news I brought; workmen have left the workshops, judges the judgment-seat, merchants their bales, women their homes.

"'Why toil any more,' they say, 'for the low ambitions of this mere peak of rock? Why heap up its cockle-shells of wealth? Around us is the Continent, the Main Land of our true life; before us is our Home. For the moment we are poised here, like birds of passage on a sea-girt rock; what is there to do but to take a moment's rest, or a moment's refreshment, and plume our wings for flight?'

"Thus, where my message was believed, cities have been unpeopled, homes have been broken up, every-day pursuits have grown aimless and insipid, and have been abandoned, until some, not of the scoffers, but of the soberer sort, have said,--

"If your tidings are true, let them be true. The hour will come which discovers them to all. We will go on our quiet way, and find them true when our hour comes. And, we trow, the King, if he come, will be as well pleased to find us at our work as you at your watching."

"Mother," concluded the son, "I feel as if we had made some mistake; as if there must be more to learn. And I have come home to search and see."

Then once more, as on that first night of the old man's departure, Hope unrolled the scroll he had left behind, and the three sat into the night and drank in the enlightening words.

And now they learned the second half of the tidings. The passages over which, in the first joy of the discovery of the New World, they had passed hastily as mere trite and familiar truths, now shone out on them as the very directions they needed.

They learned how for thirty years the King's Son had lived quietly in the Island, doing its ordinary work, before for those three years He went about proclaiming why He came.

Of those precious years which He had sojourned among them, tenfold more time had been spent in doing what every man must do, than in doing what He seemed to have come especially to do.

In the word He had left to guide His own, tenfold more space was given to directions how to do His will in this land of exile than to revealing the glories of the abiding Home.

From the Everlasting Hills, and the Golden City, and the many mansions, the veil was lifted but for rare glimpses. On every step of the daily path shone for those who sought it a full daylight, in which no one need go astray.

Thus once more as they read, the Island, which had dwindled to a peak of sea-washed rock, expanded into a beauty and significance greater than ever.

For the Island was not merely a fragment broken off from the Continent.

It was an integral part of the Kingdom. The laws of the Royal City were its laws. The lowliest right work of its inhabitants was the King's work.

And when morning dawned, and they went out once more on the shore together, the very beach under their feet seemed to have grown a sacred place; the very drawing of water from the old familiar spring a royal service.

They had learned, not only the proportion between the Island and the Main Land, which made the Island dwindle to a fragment of rock, but the connection, which made it wide and grand, as the entrance to a boundless world. Only in itself, disconnected from the Kingdom to which it belonged, was it narrow and poor. Only its ambitions limited to itself, only its treasures, so used as to be left behind in it, were really worthless. Its paths, so broken and bounded in themselves, were infinite, as each the beginning of the radius of an infinite circle. Its hills, so low when compared with the mountain-ranges of the Main Land, were infused with a new inward glory like the light enshrined in gems, when looked at as but the lower slopes of those Everlasting Hills.

The lowliest loving works, done faithfully on His Island, were as much done under the King's eye as the loftiest in His palace chambers; and they might be done as much to His praise.

The service of the King on the Island and on the Main Land was indeed all one, though done in very different degrees of perfection, and on very different levels.

Not only in gazing towards their lofty Dwelling Place, but in following their lowly footsteps, were they drawing nearer those who had gone before.

The best waiting was obeying; the best Island lessons were not so much learning the wonders of that higher world, as learning the obedience which makes it the glorious, harmonious world it is.

And many a time, thenceforth, as the mother and her children went about their daily tasks, rendering such services as they could to all around, gleams of wonderful light which they had watched for in vain, and strains of inimitable music which all their listening had not caught, surprised them along their every-day paths. Every day, and all day long, the presence of the mountains of the Main Land brooded over them.

And one day, also by their every-day paths, the Messenger Ship will surprise them with its summons to the Land of welcome. The step into it will be but one of their every-day steps on the King's errands. But what the step out of it will be, who can utter?

For the Everlasting Hills do indeed stand round about the Island; and the gates of the Golden City are open towards it night and day, and the mist which veils the Glorious Land is altogether transparent on the other side. [bb]!!!! RISEN WITH CHRIST.

Not alone the victors free, Standing by the crystal sea, Sing the song of victory, "Risen are Thine own with Thee,"-- We may chant it; even we.

One our life with those above, One our service, one our love. Not at death that life begins, Though a fuller strength it wins; Freed from all that cramps its might, Freed from all that bounds its flight, Freed from all that dims its light.

We upon these lower slopes, Dim with fears and fitful hopes; They upon the eternal heights, Glorious in undying lights, Radiant in the cloudless Sun; Yet their life and ours is one. E'en on us their Sun hath shone, And for us their Day begun.

And the lowly paths we tread Are the same where they were led; Very sacred grown and sweet, Printed by immortal feet; Trodden once, long years before, By His feet whom they adore.

And each service kind and true, Which to any here we do, Linked in one immortal chain, Makes their service live again; Draws us to the service nigh Which they render now on high: For the highest heavens above Nothing higher know than love.

Hidden are our best with Thee, Hidden too our life must be; Since e'en Thou, our Life and Light, Hidden art from mortal sight: Yet for us has Life begun, E'en on us their day hath shone, Still with theirs our life is one. [bb]

[The end]
Elizabeth Rundle Charles's short story: Island And The Main Land

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