E-text prepared by David Garcia, Josephine Paolucci, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
A LITTLE PILGRIM
In the Unseen
by
MRS. OLIPHANT
London
MacMillan and Co., Limited
New York: The MacMillan Company
1899
Puro e disposto a salire alle stelle.
_Purgaterio_, Canto xxxiii.
The sympathetic reader will easily understand that the following pages
were never meant to be connected with any author's name. They sprang out
of those thoughts that arise in the heart, when the door of the Unseen
has been suddenly opened close by us; and are little more than a wistful
attempt to follow a gentle soul which never knew doubt into the New
World, and to catch a glimpse of something of its glory through her
simple and child-like eyes.
In Memoriam
E.C.
25TH FEBRUARY 1882
A LITTLE PILGRIM IN THE UNSEEN
She had been talking of dying only the evening before, with a friend,
and had described her own sensations after a long illness when she had
been at the point of death. "I suppose," she said, "that I was as nearly
gone as any one ever was to come back again. There was no pain in it,
only a sense of sinking down, down--through the bed as if nothing could
hold me or give me support enough--but no pain." And then they had
spoken of another friend in the same circumstances, who also had come
back from the very verge, and who described her sensations as those of
one floating upon a summer sea without pain or suffering, in a lovely
nook of the Mediterranean, blue as the sky. These soft and soothing
images of the passage which all men dread had been talked over with low
voices, yet with smiles and a grateful sense that "the warm precincts of
the cheerful day" were once more familiar to both. And very cheerfully
she went to rest that night, talking of what was to be done on the
morrow, and fell asleep sweetly in her little room, with its shaded
light and curtained window, and little pictures on the dim walls. All
was quiet in the house: soft breathing of the sleepers, soft murmuring
of the spring wind outside, a wintry moon very clear and full in the
skies, a little town all hushed and quiet, everything lying defenceless,
unconscious, in the safe keeping of God.
How soon she woke no one can tell. She woke and lay quite still, half
roused, half hushed, in that soft languor that attends a happy waking.
She was happy always in the peace of a heart that was humble and
faithful and pure, but yet had been used to wake to a consciousness of
little pains and troubles, such as even to her meekness were sometimes
hard to bear. But on this morning there were none of these. She lay in a
kind of hush of happiness and ease, not caring to make any further
movement, lingering over the sweet sensation of that waking. She had no
desire to move nor to break the spell of the silence and peace. It was
still very early, she supposed, and probably it might be hours yet
before any one came to call her. It might even be that she should sleep
again. She had no wish to move, she lay in such luxurious ease and calm.
But by and by, as she came to full possession of her waking senses, it
appeared to her that there was some change in the atmosphere, in the
scene. There began to steal into the air about her the soft dawn as of a
summer morning, the lovely blueness of the first opening of daylight
before the sun. It could not be the light of the moon which she had seen
before she went to bed; and all was so still that it could not be the
bustling wintry day which comes at that time of the year late, to find
the world awake before it. This was different; it was like the summer
dawn, a soft suffusion of light growing every moment. And by and by it
occurred to her that she was not in the little room where she had lain
down. There were no dim walls or roof, her little pictures were all
gone, the curtains at her window. The discovery gave her no uneasiness
in that delightful calm. She lay still to think of it all, to wonder,
yet undisturbed. It half amused her that these things should be changed,
but did not rouse her yet with any shock of alteration. The light grew
fuller and fuller round, growing into day, clearing her eyes from the
sweet mist of the first waking. Then she raised herself upon her arm.
She was not in her room, she was in no scene she knew. Indeed it was
scarcely a scene at all--nothing but light, so soft and lovely that it
soothed and caressed her eyes. She thought all at once of a summer
morning when she was a child, when she had woke in the deep night which
yet was day, early--so early that the birds were scarcely astir--and had
risen up with a delicious sense of daring, and of being all alone in the
mystery of the sunrise, in the unawakened world which lay at her feet to
be explored, as if she were Eve just entering upon Eden. It was curious
how all those childish sensations, long forgotten, came back to her as
she found herself so unexpectedly out of her sleep in the open air and
light. In the recollection of that lovely hour, with a smile at herself,
so different as she now knew herself to be, she was moved to rise and
look a little more closely about her and see where she was.
When I call her a little Pilgrim, I do not mean that she was a child;
on the contrary, she was not even young. She was little by nature, with
as little flesh and blood as was consistent with mortal life; and she
was one of those who are always little for love. The tongue found
diminutives for her; the heart kept her in a perpetual youth. She was so
modest and so gentle that she always came last so long as there was any
one whom she could put before her. But this little body, and the soul
which was not little, and the heart which was big and great, had known
all the round of sorrows that fill a woman's life, without knowing any
of its warmer blessings. She had nursed the sick, she had entertained
the weary, she had consoled the dying. She had gone about the world,
which had no prize nor recompense for her, with a smile. Her little
presence had been always bright. She was not clever; you might have said
she had no mind at all; but so wise and right and tender a heart that it
was as good as genius. This is to let you know what this little Pilgrim
had been.
She rose up, and it was strange how like she felt to the child she
remembered in that still summer morning so many years ago. Her little
body, which had been worn and racked with pain, felt as light and
unconscious of itself as then. She took her first step forward with the
same sense of pleasure, yet of awe, suppressed delight and daring and
wild adventure, yet perfect safety. But then the recollection of the
little room in which she had fallen asleep came quickly, strangely over
her, confusing her mind. "I must be dreaming, I suppose," she said to
herself regretfully; for it was all so sweet that she wished it to be
true. Her movement called her attention to herself, and she found that
she was dressed, not in her night-dress, as she had lain down, but in a
dress she did not know. She paused for a moment to look at it and
wonder. She had never seen it before; she did not make out how it was
made, or what stuff it was; but it fell so pleasantly about her, it was
so soft and light, that in her confused state she abandoned that subject
with only an additional sense of pleasure. And now the atmosphere became
more distinct to her. She saw that under her feet was a greenness as of
close velvet turf, both cool and warm, cool and soft to touch, but with
no damp in it, as might have been at that early hour, and with flowers
showing here and there. She stood looking round her, not able to
identify the landscape because she was still confused a little, and then
walked softly on, all the time afraid lest she should awake and lose the
sweetness of it all, and the sense of rest and happiness. She felt so
light, so airy, as if she could skim across the field like any child. It
was bliss enough to breathe and move with every organ so free. After
more than fifty years of hard service in the world to feel like this,
even in a dream! She smiled to herself at her own pleasure; and then
once more, yet more potently, there came back upon her the appearance
of her room in which she had fallen asleep. How had she got from there
to here? Had she been carried away in her sleep, or was it only a dream,
and would she by and by find herself between the four dim walls again?
Then this shadow of recollection faded away once more, and she moved
forward, walking in a soft rapture over the delicious turf. Presently
she came to a little mound upon which she paused to look about her.
Every moment she saw a little farther: blue hills far away, extending in
long sweet distance, an indefinite landscape, but fair and vast, so that
there could be seen no end to it, not even the line of the horizon--save
at one side, where there seemed to be a great shadowy gateway, and
something dim beyond. She turned from the brightness to look at this,
and when she had looked for some time she saw what pleased her still
more, though she had been so happy before--people coming in. They were
too far off for her to see clearly, but many came, each apart, one
figure only at a time. To watch them amused her in the delightful
leisure of her mind. Who were they? she wondered; but no doubt soon some
of them would come this way, and she would see. Then suddenly she seemed
to hear, as if in answer to her question, some one say, "Those who are
coming in are the people who have died on earth." "Died!" she said to
herself aloud, with a wondering sense of the inappropriateness of the
word, which almost came the length of laughter. In this sweet air, with
such a sense of life about, to suggest such an idea was almost
ludicrous. She was so occupied with this that she did not look round to
see who the speaker might be. She thought it over, amused, but with some
new confusion of the mind. Then she said, "Perhaps I have died too,"
with a laugh to herself at the absurdity of the thought.
"Yes," said the other voice, echoing that gentle laugh of hers, "you
have died too."
She turned round and saw another standing by her--a woman, younger and
fairer and more stately than herself, but of so sweet a countenance that
our little Pilgrim felt no shyness, but recognised a friend at once. She
was more occupied looking at this new face, and feeling herself at once
so much happier (though she had been so happy before) in finding a
companion who could tell her what everything was, than in considering
what these words might mean. But just then once more the recollection of
the four walls, with their little pictures hanging, and the window with
its curtains drawn, seemed to come round her for a moment, so that her
whole soul was in a confusion. And as this vision slowly faded away
(though she could not tell which was the vision, the darkened room or
this lovely light), her attention came back to the words at which she
had laughed, and at which the other had laughed as she repeated them.
Died?--was it possible that this could be the meaning of it all.
"Died?" she said, looking with wonder in her companion's face, which
smiled back to her. "But do you mean--? You cannot mean--? I have never
been so well. I am so strong. I have no trouble anywhere. I am full of
life."
The other nodded her beautiful head with a more beautiful smile, and the
little Pilgrim burst out in a great cry of joy, and said--
"Is this all? Is it over?--is it all over? Is it possible that this can
be all?"
"Were you afraid of it?" the other said. There was a little agitation
for the moment in her heart. She was so glad, so relieved and thankful,
that it took away her breath. She could not get over the wonder of it.
"To think one should look forward to it so long, and wonder and be even
unhappy trying to divine what it will be--and this all!"
"Ah, but the angel was very gentle with you," said the young woman.
"You were so tender and worn that he only smiled and took you sleeping.
There are other ways; but it is always wonderful to think it is over, as
you say."
The little Pilgrim could do nothing but talk of it, as one does after a
very great event. "Are you sure, quite sure, it is so?" she said. "It
would be dreadful to find it only a dream, to go to sleep again, and
wake up--there--" This thought troubled her for a moment. The vision of
the bedchamber came back, but this time she felt it was only a vision.
"Were you afraid too?" she said, in a low voice.
"I never thought of it at all," the beautiful stranger said. "I did not
think it would come to me; but I was very sorry for the others to whom
it came, and grudged that they should lose the beautiful earth and life,
and all that was so sweet."
"My dear!" cried the Pilgrim, as if she had never died, "oh, but this is
far sweeter! and the heart is so light, and it is happiness only to
breathe. Is it heaven here? It must be heaven."
"I do not know if it is heaven. We have so many things to learn. They
cannot tell you everything at once," said the beautiful lady. "I have
seen some of the people I was sorry for, and when I told them, we
laughed--as you and I laughed just now--for pleasure."
"That makes me think," said the little Pilgrim. "If I have died as you
say--which is so strange and me so living--if I have died, they will
have found it out. The house will be all dark, and they will be breaking
their hearts. Oh, how could I forget them in my selfishness, and be
happy! I so lighthearted while they--"
She sat down hastily and covered her face with her hands and wept. The
other looked at her for a moment, then kissed her for comfort and cried
too. The two happy creatures sat there weeping together, thinking of
those they had left behind, with an exquisite grief which was not
unhappiness, which was sweet with love and pity. "And oh," said the
little Pilgrim, "what can we do to tell them not to grieve? Cannot you
send, cannot you speak--cannot one go to tell them?"
The heavenly stranger shook her head.
"It is not well, they all say. Sometimes one has been permitted; but
they do not know you," she said, with a pitiful look in her sweet eyes.
"My mother told me that her heart was so sick for me, she was allowed to
go; and she went and stood by me, and spoke to me, and I did not know
her. She came back so sad and sorry that they took her at once to our
Father, and there, you know, she found that it was all well. All is well
when you are there."
"Ah," said the little Pilgrim, "I have been thinking of other things--of
how happy I was, and of _them_, but never of the Father--just as if I
had not died."
The other smiled upon her with a wonderful smile.
"Do you think He will be offended--our Father? as if He were one of
us?" she said.
And then the little Pilgrim, in her sudden grief to have forgotten Him,
became conscious of a new rapture unexplainable in words. She felt His
understanding to envelop her little spirit with a soft and clear
penetration, and that nothing she did or said could ever be misconceived
more. "Will you take me to Him?" she said, trembling yet glad, clasping
her hands. And once again the other shook her head.
"They will take us both when it is time," she said. "We do not go at our
own will. But I have seen our Brother--"
"Oh, take me to Him!" the little Pilgrim cried. "Let me see His face! I
have so many things to say to Him. I want to ask him--Oh, take me to
where I can see His face!"
And then once again the heavenly lady smiled.
"I have seen Him," she said. "He is always about--now here, now there.
He will come and see you perhaps when you are not thinking--but when He
pleases. We do not think here of what we will--"
The little Pilgrim sat very still, wondering at all this. She had
thought when a soul left the earth that it went at once to God, and
thought of nothing more except worship and singing of praises. But this
was different from her thoughts. She sat and pondered and wondered. She
was baffled at many points. She was not changed as she expected, but so
much like herself still--still perplexed, and feeling herself foolish,
not understanding, toiling after a something which she could not grasp.
The only difference was that it was no trouble to her now. She smiled at
herself, and at her dulness, feeling sure that by and by she would
understand.
"And don't you wonder too?" she said to her companion, which was a
speech such as she used to make upon the earth where people thought her
little remarks disjointed, and did not always see the connection of
them. But her friend of heaven knew what she meant.
"I do nothing but wonder," she said, "for it is all so natural--not what
we thought."
"Is it long since you have been here?" the Pilgrim said.
"I came before you--but how long or how short I cannot tell, for that is
not how we count. We count only by what happens to us. And nothing yet
has happened to me, except that I have seen our Brother. My mother sees
Him always. That means she has lived here a long time and well--"
"Is it possible to live ill--in heaven?" The little Pilgrim's eyes grew
large as if they were going to have tears in them, and a little shadow
seemed to come over her. But the other laughed softly and restored her
confidence.
"I have told you I do not know if it is heaven or not. No one does ill,
but some do little and some do much, just as it used to be. Do you
remember in Dante there was a lazy spirit that stayed about the gates
and never got farther? but perhaps you never read that."
"I was not clever," said the little Pilgrim, wistfully. "No, I never
read it. I wish I had known more."
Upon which the beautiful lady kissed her again to give her courage, and
said--
"It does not matter at all. It all comes to you whether you have known
it or not."
"Then your mother came here long ago?" said the Pilgrim. "Ah, then I
shall see my mother too."
"Oh, very soon--as soon as she can come; but there are so many things to
do. Sometimes we can go and meet those who are coming, but it is not
always so. I remember that she had a message. She could not leave her
business, you may be sure, or she would have been here."
"Then you know my mother? Oh, and my dearest father too?"
"We all know each other," the lady said with a smile.
"And you? did you come to meet me--only out of kindness, though I do not
know you?" the little Pilgrim said.
"I am nothing but an idler," said the beautiful lady, "making
acquaintance. I am of little use as yet. I was very hard worked before I
came here, and they think ft well that we should sit in the sun and take
a little rest and find things out."
Then the little Pilgrim sat still and mused, and felt in her heart that
she had found many things out. What she had heard had been wonderful,
and it was more wonderful still to be sitting here all alone save for
this lady, yet so happy and at ease. She wanted to sing, she was so
happy, but remembered that she was old and had lost her voice, and then
remembered again that she was no longer old, and perhaps had found it
again. And then it occurred to her to remember how she had learned to
sing, and how beautiful her sister's voice was, and how heavenly to hear
her, which made her remember that this dear sister would be weeping,
not singing, down where she had come from--and immediately the tears
stood in her eyes.
"Oh," she said, "I never thought we should cry when we came here. I
thought there were no tears in heaven."
"Did you think, then, that we were all turned into stone?" cried the
beautiful lady. "It says, God shall wipe away all tears from our faces,
which is not like saying there are to be no tears."
Upon which the little Pilgrim, glad that it was permitted to be sorry,
though she was so happy, allowed herself to think upon the place she had
so lately left. And she seemed to see her little room again with all the
pictures hanging as she had left them, and the house darkened, and the
dear faces she knew all sad and troubled; and to hear them saying over
to each other all the little careless words she had said as if they were
out of the Scriptures, and crying if any one but mentioned her name,
and putting on crape and black dresses, and lamenting as if that which
had happened was something very terrible. She cried at this and yet felt
half inclined to laugh, but would not because it would be disrespectful
to those she loved. One thing did not occur to her, and that was that
they would be carrying her body, which she had left behind her, away to
the grave. She did not think of this because she was not aware of the
loss, and felt far too much herself to think that there was another part
of her being buried in the ground. From this she was aroused by her
companion asking her a question.
"Have you left many there?" she said.
"No one," said the little Pilgrim, "to whom I was the first on earth,
but they loved me all the same; and if I could only, only let them
know--"
"But I left one to whom I was the first on earth," said the other with
tears in her beautiful eyes, "and oh, how glad I should be to be less
happy if he might be less sad!"
"And you cannot go? you cannot go to him and tell him? Oh, I wish--"
cried the little Pilgrim; but then she paused, for the wish died all
away in her heart into a tender love for this poor sorrowful man whom
she did not know. This gave her the sweetest pang she had ever felt, for
she knew that all was well, and yet was so sorry, and would have
willingly given up her happiness for his. All this the lady read in her
eyes or her heart, and loved her for it; and they took hands and were
silent together, thinking of those they had left, as we upon earth think
of those who have gone from us, but only with far more understanding,
and far greater love. "And have you never been able to do anything for
him?" our Pilgrim said.
Then the beautiful lady's face flushed all over with the most heavenly
warmth and light. Her smile ran over like the bursting out of the sun.
"Oh, I will tell you," she said. "There was a moment when he was very
sad and perplexed, not knowing what to think. There was something he
could not understand; nor could I understand, nor did I know what it was
until it was said to me, 'You may go and tell him.' And I went in the
early morning, before he was awake, and kissed him, and said it in his
ear. He woke up in a moment and understood, and everything was clear to
him. Afterwards I heard him say, 'It is true that the night brings
counsel. I had been troubled and distressed all day long, but in the
morning it was quite clear to me.' And the other answered, 'Your brain
was refreshed, and that made your judgment clear.' But they never knew
it was I! That was a great delight. The dear souls! they are so
foolish," she cried with the sweetest laughter that ran into tears. "One
cries because one is so happy; it is a silly old habit," she said.
"And you were not grieved, it did not hurt you--that he did not know--"
"Oh, not then; not then! I did not go to him for that. When you have
been here a little longer you will see the difference. When you go for
yourself, out of impatience, because it still seems to you that you must
know best, and they don't know you--then it strikes to your heart; but
when you go to help them--ah," she cried, "when he comes how much I
shall have to tell him! 'You thought it was sleep when it was I--when
you woke so fresh and clear it was I that kissed you; you thought it
your duty to me to be sad afterwards and were angry with yourself
because you had wronged me of the first thoughts of your waking--when it
was all me, all through!'"
"I begin to understand," said the little Pilgrim; "but why should they
not see us, and why should not we tell them? It would seem so natural.
If they saw us it would make them so happy, and so sure."
Upon this the lady shook her head.
"The worst of it is not that they are not sure--it is the parting. If
this makes us sorry here, how can they escape the sorrow of it even if
they saw us?--for we must be parted. We cannot go back to live with
them, or why should we have died? And then we must all live our
lives--they in their way, we in ours. We must not weigh them down, but
only help them when it is seen that there is need for it. All this we
shall know better by and by."
"You make it so clear, and your face is so bright," said our little
Pilgrim gratefully. "You must have known a great deal, and understood
even when you were in the world."
"I was as foolish as I could be," said the other, with her laugh that
was as sweet as music; "yet thought I knew, and they thought I knew; but
all that does not matter now."
"I think it matters, for look how much you have shown me; but tell me
one thing more--how was it said to you that you must go and tell him?
Was it some one who spoke--was it--"
Her face grew so bright that all the past brightness was as a dull sky
to this. It gave out such a light of happiness that the little Pilgrim
was dazzled.
"I was wandering about," she said, "to see this new place. My mother had
come back between two errands she had, and had come to see me and tell
me everything; and I was straying about wondering what I was to do, when
suddenly I saw some one coming along, as it might be now--"
She paused and looked up, and the little Pilgrim looked up too with her
heart beating, but there was no one. Then she gave a little sigh, and
turned and listened again.
"I had not been looking for Him, or thinking. You know my mind is too
light. I am pleased with whatever is before me; and I was so curious,
for my mother had told me many things: when suddenly I caught sight of
Him passing by. He was going on, and when I saw this a panic seized me,
lest He should pass and say nothing. I do not know what I did. I flung
myself upon His robe, and got hold of it, or at least I think so. I was
in such an agony lest He should pass and never notice me. But that was
my folly. He pass! As if that could be!"
"And what did He say to you?" cried the little Pilgrim, her heart almost
aching it beat so high with sympathy and expectation.
The lady looked at her for a little without saying anything.
"I cannot tell you," she said, "any more than I can tell if this is
heaven. It is a mystery. When you see Him you will know. It will be all
you have ever hoped for and more besides, for He understands everything.
He knows what is in our hearts about those we have left, and why He sent
for us before them. There is no need to tell Him anything; He knows. He
will come when it is time; and after you have seen Him you will know
what to do."
Then the beautiful lady turned her eyes towards the gate, and, while the
little Pilgrim was still gazing, disappeared from her, and went to
comfort some other stranger. They were dear friends always, and met
often, but not again in the same way.
* * * * *
When she was thus left alone again, the little Pilgrim sat still upon
the grassy mound, quite tranquil and happy, without wishing to move.
There was such a sense of wellbeing in her that she liked to sit there
and look about her, and breathe the delightful air, like the air of a
summer morning, without wishing for anything.
"How idle I am!" she said to herself, in the very words she had often
used before she died; but then she was idle from weakness, and now from
happiness. She wanted for nothing. To be alive was so sweet. There was a
great deal to think about in what she had heard, but she did not even
think about that, only resigned herself to the delight of sitting there
in the sweet air and being happy. Many people were coming and going, and
they all knew her, and smiled upon her, and those who were at a distance
would wave their hands. This did not surprise her at all, for though
she was a stranger, she, too, felt that she knew them all; but that they
should be so kind was a delight to her which words could not tell. She
sat and mused very sweetly about all that had been told her, and
wondered whether she, too, might go sometimes, and, with a kiss and a
whisper, clear up something that was dark in the mind of some one who
loved her. "I that never was clever!" she said to herself, with a smile.
And chiefly she thought of a friend whom she loved, who was often in
great perplexity, and did not know how to guide herself amid the
difficulties of the world.
The little Pilgrim half laughed with delight, and then half cried with
longing to go, as the beautiful lady had done, and make something clear
that had been dark before to this friend. As she was thinking what a
pleasure it would be, some one came up to her, crossing over the flowery
greenness, leaving the path on purpose. This was a being younger than
the lady who had spoken to her before, with flowing hair all crisped
with touches of sunshine, and a dress all white and soft, like the
feathers of a white dove. There was something in her face different from
that of the other, by which the little Pilgrim knew somehow, without
knowing how, that she had come here as a child, and grown up in this
celestial place. She was tall and fair, and came along with so musical a
motion, as if her foot scarcely touched the ground, that she might have
had wings. And the little Pilgrim indeed was not sure as she watched,
whether it might not perhaps be an angel, for she knew that there were
angels among the blessed people who were coming and going about, but had
not been able yet to find one out. She knew that this new-comer was
coming to her, and turned towards her with a smile and a throb at her
heart of expectation. But when the heavenly maiden drew nearer, her
face, though it was so fair, looked to the Pilgrim like another face,
which she had known very well--indeed, like the homely and troubled face
of the friend of whom she had been thinking. And so she smiled all the
more, and held out her hands and said--"I am sure I know you," upon
which the other kissed her, and said, "We all know each other; but I
have seen you often before you came here," and knelt down by her, among
the flowers that were growing, just in front of some tall lilies that
grew over her, and made a lovely canopy over her head. There was
something in her face that was like a child--her mouth so soft as if it
had never spoken anything but heavenly words, her eyes brown and golden
as if they were filled with light. She took the little Pilgrim's hands
in hers, and held them and smoothed them between her own. These hands
had been very thin and worn before, but now, when the Pilgrim looked at
them, she saw that they became softer and whiter every moment with the
touch of this immortal youth.
"I knew you were coming," said the maiden. "When my mother has wanted
me I have seen you there. And you were thinking of her now--that was how
I found you."
"Do you know, then, what one thinks?" said the little Pilgrim with
wondering eyes.
"It is in the air; and when it concerns us it comes to us like the
breeze. But we who are the children here, we feel it more quickly than
you."
"Are you a child?" said the little Pilgrim, "or are you an angel?
Sometimes you are like a child; but then your face shines and you are
like--you must have some name for it here; there is nothing among the
words I know." And then she paused a little, still looking at her, and
cried, "Oh, if she could but see you, little Margaret! That would do her
most good of all."
Then the maiden Margaret shook her lovely head. "What does her most good
is the will of the Father," she said.
At this the little Pilgrim felt once more that thrill of expectation
and awe. "Oh, child, you have seen Him?" she cried.
And the other smiled. "Have you forgotten who they are that always
behold His face? We have never had any fear or trembling. We are not
angels, and there is no other name; we are the children. There is
something given to us beyond the others. We have had no other home."
"Oh, tell me, tell me!" the little Pilgrim cried.
Upon this Margaret kissed her, putting her soft cheek against hers, and
said, "It is a mystery; it cannot be put into words; in your time you
will know."
"When you touch me you change me, and I grow like you," the Pilgrim
said. "Ah, if she could see us together, you and me! And will you go to
her soon again? And do you see them always--what they are doing? and
take care of them?"
"It is our Father who takes care of them, and our Lord who is our
Brother. I do His errands when I am able. Sometimes He will let me go,
sometimes another, according as it is best. Who am I that I should take
care of them? I serve them when I may."
"But you do not forget them?" the Pilgrim said, with wistful eyes.
"We love them always," said Margaret. She was more still than the lady
who had first spoken with the Pilgrim. Her countenance was full of a
heavenly calm. It had never known passion nor anguish. Sometimes there
was in it a far-seeing look of vision, sometimes the simplicity of a
child. "But what are we in comparison? For He loves them more than we
do. When He keeps us from them it is for love. We must each live our own
life."
"But it is hard for them sometimes," said the little Pilgrim, who could
not withdraw her thoughts from those she had left.
"They are never forsaken," said the angel-maiden.
"But oh! there are worse things than sorrow," the little Pilgrim said;
"there is wrong, there is evil, Margaret. Will not He send you to step
in before them, to save them from wrong?"
"It is not for us to judge," said the young Margaret, with eyes full of
heavenly wisdom. "Our Brother has it all in His hand. We do not read
their hearts like Him. Sometimes you are permitted to see the battle."
The little Pilgrim covered her eyes with her hands. "I could not--I
could not! unless I knew they were to win the day."
"They will win the day in the end. But sometimes, when it was being
lost, I have seen in His face a something--I cannot tell--more love than
before. Something that seemed to say, 'My child, my child, would that I
could do it for thee, my child!'"
"Oh! that is what I have always felt," cried the Pilgrim, clasping her
hands; her eyes were dim, her heart for a moment almost forgot its
blessedness. "But He could--Oh, little Margaret! He could! You have
forgotten--Lord, if Thou wilt Thou canst--"
The child of heaven looked at her mutely, with sweet grave eyes, in
which there was much that confused her who was a stranger here; and once
more softly shook her head.
"Is it that He will not, then?" said the other with a low voice of awe.
"Our Lord who died--He--"
"Listen," said the other, "I hear His step on the way."
The little Pilgrim rose up from the mound on which she was sitting. Her
soul was confused with wonder and fear. She had thought that an angel
might step between a soul on earth and sin, and that if one but prayed
and prayed, the dear Lord would stand between and deliver the tempted.
She had meant when she saw His face to ask Him to save Was not He born,
did not He live, and die to save? The angel-maiden looked at her all the
while, with eyes that understood all her perplexity and her doubt, but
spoke not. Thus it was that before the Lord came to her the sweetness of
her first blessedness was obscured, and she found that here, too, even
here, though in a moment she should see Him, there was need for faith.
Young Margaret, who had been kneeling by her, rose up too and stood
among the lilies, waiting, her soft countenance shining, her eyes turned
towards Him who was coming. Upon her there was no cloud nor doubt. She
was one of the children of that land familiar with His presence. And in
the air there was a sound such as those who hear it alone can
describe--a sound as of help coming and safety, like the sound of a
deliverer when one is in deadly danger, like the sound of a conqueror,
like the step of the dearest-beloved coming home. As it came nearer the
fear melted away out of the beating heart of the Pilgrim. Who could fear
so near Him? her breath went away from her, her heart out of her bosom,
to meet His coming. Oh, never fear could live where He was! Her soul was
all confused, but it was with hope and joy. She held out her hands in
that amaze, and dropped upon her knees, not knowing what she did.
He was going about His Father's business, not lingering, yet neither
making haste; and the calm and peace which the little Pilgrim had seen
in the faces of the blessed were but reflections from the majestic
gentleness of the countenance to which, all quivering with happiness and
wonder, she lifted up her eyes. Many things there had been in her mind
to say to Him. She wanted to ask for those she loved some things which
perhaps He had overlooked. She wanted to say, "Send me." It seemed to
her that here was the occasion she had longed for all her life. Oh, how
many times had she wished to be able to go to Him, to fall at His feet,
to show Him something which had been left undone, something which
perhaps for her asking He would remember to do. But when this dream of
her life was fulfilled, and the little Pilgrim kneeling, and all shaken
and trembling with devotion and joy, was at His feet, lifting her face
to Him, seeing Him, hearing Him--then she said nothing to Him at all.
She no longer wanted to say anything, or wanted anything except what He
chose, or had power to think of anything except that all was well, and
everything--everything, as it should be in His hand. It seemed to her
that all that she had ever hoped for was fulfilled when she met the look
in His eyes. At first it seemed too bright for her to meet, but next
moment she knew it was all that was needed to light up the world, and in
it everything was clear. Her trembling ceased, her little frame grew
inspired; though she still knelt, her head rose erect, drawn to Him like
the flower to the sun. She could not tell how long it was, nor what was
said, nor if it was in words. All that she knew was that she told Him
all that ever she had thought, or wished, or intended in all her life,
although she said nothing at all; and that He opened all things to her,
and showed her that everything was well, and no one forgotten; and that
the things she would have told Him of were more near His heart than
hers, and those to whom she wanted to be sent were in His own hand. But
whether this passed with words or without words she could not tell. Her
soul expanded under His eyes like a flower. It opened out, it
comprehended, and felt, and knew. She smote her hands together in her
wonder that she could have missed seeing what was so clear, and laughed
with a sweet scorn at her folly, as two people who love each other laugh
at the little misunderstanding that has parted them. She was bold with
Him, though she was so timid by nature, and ventured to laugh at
herself, not to reproach herself--for His divine eyes spoke no blame,
but smiled upon her folly too. And then He laid a hand upon her head,
which seemed to fill her with currents of strength and joy running
through all her veins. And then she seemed to come to herself saying
loud out, "And that I will! and that I will!" and lo, she was kneeling
on the warm soft sod alone, and hearing the sound of His footsteps as He
went about His Father's business, filling all the air with echoes of
blessing. And all the people who were coming and going smiled upon her,
and she knew they were all glad for her that she had seen Him, and got
the desire of her heart. Some of them waved their hands as they passed,
and some paused a moment and spoke to her with tender congratulations.
They seemed to have the tears in their eyes for joy, remembering every
one the first time they had themselves seen Him, and the joy of it; so
that all about there sounded a concord of happy thoughts all echoing to
each other, "She has seen the Lord!"
Why did she say, "And that I will! and that I will!" with such fervour
and delight? She could not have told but yet she knew. The first thing
was that she had yet to wait and believe until all things should be
accomplished, neither doubting nor fearing, but knowing that all should
be well; and the second was that she must delay no longer, but rise up
and serve the Father according to what was given her as her reward. When
she had recovered a little of her rapture she rose from her knees, and
stood still for a moment to be sure which way she was to go. And she was
not aware what guided her, but yet turned her face in the appointed way
without any doubt. For doubt was now gone away for ever, and that fear
that once gave her so much trouble lest she might not be doing what was
best. As she moved along she wondered at herself more and more. She felt
no longer, as at first, like the child she remembered to have been,
venturing out in the awful lovely stillness of the morning before any
one was awake; but she felt that to move along was a delight, and that
her foot scarcely touched the grass, and her whole being was instinct
with such lightness of strength and life that it did not matter to her
how far she went, nor what she carried, nor if the way was easy or hard.
The way she chose was one of those which led to the great gate, and many
met her coming from thence, with looks that were somewhat bewildered, as
if they did not yet know whither they were going or what had happened to
them. Upon whom she smiled as she passed them with soft looks of
tenderness and sympathy, knowing what they were feeling, but did not
stop to explain to them, because she had something else that had been
given her to do. For this is what always follows in that country when
you meet the Lord, that you instantly know what it is that He would have
you do.
The little Pilgrim thus went on and on towards the gate, which she had
not seen when she herself came through it, having been lifted in His
arms by the great Death Angel, and set down softly inside, so that she
did not know it, or even the shadow of it. As she drew nearer the light
became less bright, though very sweet, like a lovely dawn, and she
wondered to herself to think that she had been here but a moment ago,
and yet so much had passed since then. And still she was not aware what
was her errand, but wondered if she was to go back by these same gates,
and perhaps return where she had been. She went up to them very closely,
for she was curious to see the place through which she had come in her
sleep, as a traveller goes back to see the city gate, with its bridge
and portcullis, through which he has passed by night. The gate was very
great, of a wonderful, curious architecture, and strange, delicate
arches and canopies above. Some parts of them seemed cut very clean and
clear; but the outlines were all softened with a sort of mist and
shadow, so that it looked greater and higher than it was. The lower part
was not one great doorway as the Pilgrim had supposed, but innumerable
doors, all separate, and very narrow, so that but one could pass at a
time, though the arch enclosed all, and seemed filled with great folding
gates in which the smaller doors were set, so that if need arose a vast
opening might be made for many to enter. Of the little doors many were
shut as the Pilgrim approached; but from moment to moment, one after
another would be pushed softly open from without, and some one would
come in. The little Pilgrim looked at it all with great interest,
wondering which of the doors she had herself come by; but while she
stood absorbed by this, a door was suddenly pushed open close by her,
and some one flung forward into the blessed country, falling upon the
ground, and stretched out wild arms as though to clutch the very soil.
This sight gave the Pilgrim a great surprise, for it was the first time
she had heard any sound of pain, or seen any sight of trouble, since she
entered here. In that moment she knew what it was that the dear Lord had
given her to do. She had no need to pause to think, for her heart told
her; and she did not hesitate as she might have done in the other life,
not knowing what to say. She went forward, and gathered this poor
creature into her arms, as if it had been a child, and drew her quite
within the land of peace--for she had fallen across the threshold, so as
to hinder any one entering who might be coming after her. It was a
woman, and she had flung herself upon her face, so that it was difficult
for the little Pilgrim to see what manner of person it was, for though
she felt herself strong enough to take up this new-comer in her arms and
carry her away, yet she forbore, seeing the will of the stranger was not
so. For some time the woman lay moaning, with now and then a great sob
shaking her as she lay. The little Pilgrim had taken her by both her
arms, and drawn her head to rest upon her own lap, and was still holding
the hands, which the poor creature had thrown out as if to clutch the
ground. Thus she lay for a little while, as the little Pilgrim
remembered she herself had lain, not wishing to move, wondering what had
happened to her; and then she clutched the hands which grasped her, and
said, muttering--
"You are some one new. Have you come to save me? Oh, save me! Oh, save
me! Don't let me die!"
This was very strange to the little Pilgrim, and went to her heart. She
soothed the stranger, holding her hands warm and light, and stooping
over her.
"Dear," she said, "you must try and not be afraid."
"You say so," said the woman, "because you are well and strong. You
don't know what it is to be seized in the middle of your life, and told
that you've got to die. Oh, I have been a sinful creature! I am not fit
to die. Can't you give me something that will cure me? What is the good
of doctors and nurses if they cannot save a poor soul that is not fit to
die?"
At this the little Pilgrim smiled upon her, always holding her fast, and
said--
"Why are you so afraid to die?"
The woman raised her head to look who it was who put such a strange
question to her.
"You are some one new," she said. "I have never seen you before. Is
there anyone that is not afraid to die? Would _you_ like to have to give
your account all in a moment, without any time to prepare?"
"But you have had time to prepare," said the Pilgrim.
"Oh, only a very very little time; and I never thought it was true. I am
not an old woman, and I am not fit to die; and I'm poor. Oh, if I were
rich, I would bribe you to give me something to keep me alive. Won't you
do it for pity?--won't you do it for pity? When you are as bad as I am,
oh, you will perhaps call for some one to help you, and find nobody,
like me."
"I will help you for love," said the little Pilgrim. "Some one who loves
you has sent me."
The woman lifted herself up a little and shook her head. "There is
nobody that loves me." Then she cast her eyes round her and began to
tremble again (for the touch of the little Pilgrim had stilled her).
"Oh, where am I?" she said. "They have taken me away; they have brought
me to a strange place; and you are new. Oh, where have they taken
me?--where am I?--where am I?" she cried. "Have they brought me here to
die?"
Then the little Pilgrim bent over her and soothed her. "You must not be
so much afraid of dying; that is all over. You need not fear that any
more," she said, softly; "for here where you now are we have all died."
The woman started up out of her arms, and then she gave a great shriek
that made the air ring, and cried out, "Dead! am I dead?" with a shudder
and convulsion, throwing herself again wildly with outstretched hands
upon the ground.
This was a great and terrible work for the little Pilgrim--the first she
had ever had to do--and her heart failed her for a moment; but
afterwards she remembered our Brother who sent her, and knew what was
best. She drew closer to the new-comer and took her hand again.
"Try," she said, in a soft voice, "and think a little. Do you feel now
so ill as you were? Do not be frightened, but think a little. I will
hold your hand; and look at me; you are not afraid of me."
The poor creature shuddered again, and then she turned her face and
looked doubtfully with great dark eyes dilated, and the brow and cheek
so curved and puckered round them that they seemed to glow out of deep
caverns. Her face was full of anguish and fear. But as she looked at
the little Pilgrim her troubled gaze softened. Of her own accord she
clasped her other hand upon the one that held hers, and then she said
with a gasp--
"I am not afraid of you; that was not true that you said? You are one of
the sisters, and you want to frighten me and make me repent?"
"You do repent," the Pilgrim said.
"Oh," cried the poor woman, "what has the like of you to do with me? Now
I look at you I never saw any one that was like you before. Don't you
hate me?--don't you loathe me? I do myself. It's so ugly to go wrong. I
think now I would almost rather die and be done with it. You will say
that is because I am going to get better. I feel a great deal better
now. Do you think I am going to get over it? Oh, I am better! I could
get up out of bed and walk about. Yes, but I am not in bed; where have
you brought me? Never mind, it is a fine air; I shall soon get well
here."
The Pilgrim was silent for a little, holding her hands. And then she
said--
"Tell me how you feel now," in her soft voice.
The woman had sat up and was gazing round her. "It is very strange," she
said; "it is all confused. I think upon my mother and the old prayers I
used to say. For a long, long time I always said my prayers; but now
I've got hardened, they say. Oh, I was once as fresh as any one. It all
comes over me now. I feel as if I were young again--just come out of the
country. I am sure that I could walk."