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The Flaming Cross
by
“I knew that man in life,” said Callovan. “But why is not my burden heavier than his? I was richer by far.”
“You lightened it by more charity than he,” said Michael, “but you did not lighten it sufficiently: Had you given even one-tenth of all that you had, you would now be even as I am–free of all burden.”
“I wish I had known that,” said Callovan.
“But, alas! you did know,” replied Michael. “We all knew these things. We are not learning them now. But look up, sir, and see the old man with the heavy burden above you. You are going to pass him on your way, yet he has been dead now for a year.”
Callovan looked up and gasped: “My father!”
“Yes; your father,” said Michael. “You had more charity than he, and when you did give you gave with better motives; yet he always saw the Cross more plainly than you. He was filled with Faith.”
“Is it possible that I will be able to help him when I get to his side?” asked Callovan.
“I think,” replied Michael, “that you may; but you could have helped him better in life by prayers and the Great Sacrifice. You probably may go along with him, when you reach him, for you both see the Cross, and perhaps you will be allowed to aid him up the mountain.”
They had by this time reached the first steps of the climb. Orville could read the words which marked the mountain road: “THE ROAD OF PAIN AND HOPE.”
“But the Cross draws much of the pain out of it,” said Michael. “We must leave you here, sir,” he said to Callovan, turning to him. “You have far to go to reach your father; but your load is heavier than my master’s, and then you must be lonely for a while.”
“But why must I be lonely?” asked Callovan.
“For many reasons, sir,” replied Michael. “You will know them all as you go along. Knowledge will come. I may tell you but a few things now. In life you loved company, and it was often an occasion of sin to you. You go alone for a while in the Land of Death, on this pilgrimage to the Cross, so that you may contemplate God, Whom you failed to enjoy by meditation, when you could have had Him alone. Then you have few to pray for you now, for such companions as you had in life did not and do not pray. They will cover your coffin with flowers; but the only prayers will be those of the poor whom you befriended. One priest, after your funeral, will offer the Great Sacrifice for you. He was a friend whom you helped to educate. He will remember you at your burial, and again, too, before the climb is over.”
“But, Michael,” said Callovan, “I gave a great deal to many good works. Will none of the gifts count for me?”
“Yes, sir, it is true that you did give much, but,” answered Michael, “the gifts were offerings more often to your own vanity than they were to God. Motives alone govern the value of sacrifice in the Land of Death. Look, now, behind you. There is one who can best answer your question.”
Callovan turned to see an old and venerable looking man at the fork of the roads. He was gazing anxiously at the mountain, as if he dimly saw the Cross; but his burden was terrific in its weight. It rested on the ground before him. He scarcely had the courage to take the mountain road, knowing that the burden must go with him.
“I have seen that man before,” said Orville. “They gave him a reception at our club once. He was a great philanthropist–yet, look at his burden.”
“Philanthropist he was, but I fear he will go on The Road without Ending,” said Michael. “He has many amongst those who can hate for eternity to hate him.”