stood and gazed round about her, making one or two doubtful steps. She
was very pale, and the light was dim; her eyes peered into it with a
scared yet eager look. She made another step, then stopped again.
"I am quite well," she said. "I could walk a mile. I could walk any
distance. What was that you said? Oh, I tell you I am better! I am not
going to die."
"You will never, never die," said the little Pilgrim; "are you not glad
it is all over? Oh, I was so glad! And all the more you should be glad
if you were so much afraid."
But this woman was not glad. She shrank away from her companion, then
came close to her again, and gripped her with her hands.
"It is your fun," she said, "or just to frighten me; perhaps you think
it will do me no harm as I am getting so well--you want to frighten me
to make me good. But I mean to be good without that--I do! I do! When
one is so near dying as I have been and yet gets better--for I am going
to get better? Yes! you know it as well as I."
The little Pilgrim made no reply, but stood by looking at her charge,
not feeling that anything was given her to say; and she was so new to
this work that there was a little trembling in her lest she should not
do everything as she ought. And the woman looked round with those
anxious eyes gazing all about. The light did not brighten as it had done
when the Pilgrim herself first came to this place. For one thing they
had remained quite close to the gate, which no doubt threw a shadow. The
woman looked at that, and then turned and looked into the dim morning,
and did not know where she was, and her heart was confused and troubled.
"Where are we?" she said. "I do not know where it is; they must have
brought me here in my sleep--where are we? How strange to bring a sick
woman away out of her room in her sleep! I suppose it was the new
doctor," she went on, looking very closely in the little Pilgrim's face,
then paused, and, drawing a long breath, said softly, "It has done me
good. It is better air--it is a new kind of cure."
But though she spoke like this, she did not convince herself; her eyes
were wild with wondering and fear. She gripped the Pilgrim's arm more
and more closely, and trembled, leaning upon her.
"Why don't you speak to me?" she said; "why don't you tell me? Oh, I
don't know how to live in this place! What do you do?--how do you speak?
I am not fit for it. And what are you? I never saw you before nor any
one like you. What do you want with me? Why are you so kind to me?
Why--why--?"
And here she went off into a murmur of questions. Why? why? always
holding fast by the little Pilgrim, always gazing round her, groping as
it were in the dimness with her great eyes.
"I have come because our dear Lord, who is our Brother, sent me to meet
you, and because I love you," the little Pilgrim said.
"Love me!" the woman cried, throwing up her hands, "but no one loves me.
I have not deserved it." Here she grasped her close again with a sudden
clutch, and cried out, "If this is what you say, where is God?"
"Are you afraid of Him?" the little Pilgrim said.
Upon which the woman trembled so that the Pilgrim trembled too with the
quivering of her frame; then loosed her hold and fell upon her face, and
cried--
"Hide me! Hide me! I have been a great sinner. Hide me that He may not
see me," and with one hand tried to draw the Pilgrim's dress as a veil
between her and something she feared.
"How should I hide you from Him who is everywhere? and why should I hide
you from your Father?" the little Pilgrim said. This she said almost
with indignation, wondering that any one could put more trust in her,
who was no better than a child, than in the Father of all. But then she
said, "Look in your heart and you will see you are not so much afraid as
you think. This is how you have been accustomed to frighten yourself.
But look now into your heart. You thought you were very ill at first,
but not now; and you think you are afraid, but look in your heart--"
There was a silence, and then the woman raised her head with a wonderful
look, in which there was amazement and doubt, as if she had heard some
joyful thing but dared not yet believe that it was true. Once more she
hid her face in her hands, and once more raised it again. Her eyes
softened; a long sigh or gasp, like one taking breath after drowning,
shook her breast. Then she said, "I think that is true. But if I am not
afraid it is because I am--bad. It is because I am hardened. Oh, should
not I fear Him who can send me away into--the lake that burns--into the
pit--" And here she gave a great cry, but held the little Pilgrim all
the while with her eyes, which seem to plead and ask for better news.
Then there came into the Pilgrim's heart what to say, and she took the
woman's hand again and held it between her own. "That is the change,"
she said, "that comes when we come here. We are not afraid any more of
our Father. We are not all happy. Perhaps you will not be happy at
first. But if he says to you go--even to that place you speak of--you
will know that it is well, and you will not be afraid. You are not
afraid now--oh, I can see it in your eyes. You are not happy, but you
are not afraid. You know it is the Father. Do not say God, that is far
off--Father!" said the little Pilgrim, holding up the woman's hand
clasped in her own. And there came into her soul an ecstasy, and tears
that were tears of blessedness fell from her eyes, and all about her
there seemed to shine a light. When she came to herself, the woman who
was her charge had come quite close to her, and had added her other hand
to that the Pilgrim held, and was weeping, and saying, "I am not
afraid," with now and then a gasp and sob, like a child who, after a
passion of tears, has been consoled, yet goes on sobbing and cannot
quite forget, and is afraid to own that all is well again. Then the
Pilgrim kissed her, and bade her rest a little, for even she herself
felt shaken, and longed for a little quiet and to feel the true sense of
the peace that was in her heart. She sat down beside her upon the
ground, and made her lean her head against her shoulder, and thus they
remained very still for a little time, saying no more. It seemed to the
little Pilgrim that her companion had fallen asleep, and perhaps it was
so, after so much agitation. All this time there had been people
passing, entering by the many doors. And most of them paused a little to
see where they were, and looked round them, then went on; and it seemed
to the little Pilgrim that, according to the doors by which they
entered, each took a different way. While she watched, another came in
by the same door as that at which the woman who was her charge had come
in. And he too stumbled and looked about him with an air of great
wonder and doubt. When he saw her seated on the ground, he came up to
her, hesitating as one in a strange place who does not want to betray
that he is bewildered and has lost his way. He came with a little
pretence of smiling, though his countenance was pale and scared, and
said, drawing his breath quick, "I ought to know where I am, but I have
lost my head, I think. Will you tell me which is the way?"
"What way?" cried the little Pilgrim, for her strength was gone from
her, and she had no word to say to him. He looked at her with that
bewilderment on his face, and said, "I find myself strange, strange. I
ought to know where I am; but it is scarcely daylight yet. It is perhaps
foolish to come out so early in the morning." This he said in his
confusion, not knowing where he was, nor what he said.
"I think all the ways lead to our Father," said the little Pilgrim
(though she had not known this till now). "And the dear Lord walks
about them all. Here you never go astray."
Upon this the stranger looked at her, and asked in a faltering voice,
"Are you an angel?" still not knowing what he said.
"Oh, no, no. I am only a Pilgrim," she replied.
"May I sit by you a little?" said the man. He sat down drawing long
breaths as though he had gone through great fatigue; and looked about
with wondering eyes. "You will wonder, but I do not know where I am," he
said. "I feel as if I must be dreaming. This is not where I expected to
come. I looked for something very different; do you think there can have
been any mistake?"
"Oh, never that," she said; "there are no mistakes here."
Then he looked at her again, and said--
"I perceive that you belong to this country, though you say you are a
pilgrim. I should be grateful if you would tell me Does one live here?
And is this all? Is there no--no--? but I don't know what word to use.
All is so strange, different from what I expected."
"Do you know that you have died?"
"Yes, yes, I am quite acquainted with that," he said, hurriedly, as if
it had been an idea he disliked to dwell upon. "But then I expected--Is
there no one to tell you where to go, or what you are to be--? or to
take any notice of you?"
The little Pilgrim was startled by this tone. She did not understand its
meaning, and she had not any word to say to him. She looked at him with
as much bewilderment as he had shown when he approached her, and
replied, faltering--
"There are a great many people here; but I have never heard if there is
any one to tell you--"
"What does it matter how many people there are if you know none of
them?" he said.
"We all know each other," she answered him; but then paused and
hesitated a little, because this was what had been said to her, and of
herself she was not assured of it, neither did she know at all how to
deal with this stranger, to whom she had not any commission. It seemed
that he had no one to care for him, and the little Pilgrim had a sense
of compassion, yet of trouble, in her heart--for what could she say? And
it was very strange to her to see one who was not content here.
"Ah, but there should be some one to point out the way, and tell us
which is our circle, and where we ought to go," he said. And then he too
was silent for a while, looking about him, as all were fain to do on
their first arrival, finding everything so strange. There were people
coming in at every moment, and some were met at the very threshold, and
some went away alone, with peaceful faces; and there were many groups
about, talking together in soft voices, but no one interrupted the
other; and though so many were there, each voice was as clear as if it
had spoken alone, and there was no tumult of sound as when many people
assemble together in the lower world.
The little Pilgrim wondered to find herself with the woman resting upon
her on one side, and the man seated silent on the other, neither having,
it appeared, any guide but only herself who knew so little. How was she
to lead them in the paths which she did not know?--and she was exhausted
by the agitation of her struggle with the woman whom she felt to be her
charge. But in this moment of silence she had time to remember the face
of the Lord, when He gave her this commission, and her heart was
strengthened. The man all this time sat and watched, looking eagerly all
about him, examining the faces of those who went and came: and sometimes
he made a little start as if to go and speak to some one he knew; but
always drew back again and looked at the little Pilgrim, as if he had
said, "This is the one who will serve me best." He spoke to her again
after a while and said, "I suppose you are one of the guides that show
the way."
"No," said the little Pilgrim, anxiously, "I know so little! It is not
long since I came here. I came in the early morning--"
"Why, it is morning now. You could not come earlier than it is now. You
mean yesterday."
"I think," said the Pilgrim, "that yesterday is the other side; there is
no yesterday here."
He looked at her with the keen look he had, to understand her the
better; and then he said--
"No division of time! I think that must be monotonous. It will be
strange to have no night; but I suppose one gets used to everything. I
hope though there is something to do. I have always lived a very busy
life. Perhaps this is just a little pause before we go--to be--to
have--to get our--appointed place."
He had an uneasy look as he said this, and looked at her with an anxious
curiosity, which the little Pilgrim did not understand.
"I do not know," she said softly, shaking her head. "I have so little
experience. I have not been told of an appointed place."
The man looked at her very strangely.
"I did not think," he said, "that I should have found such ignorance
here. Is it not well known that we must all appear before the judgment
seat of God?"
These words seemed to cause a trembling in the still air, and the woman
on the other side raised herself suddenly up, clasping her hands: and
some of those who had just entered heard the words, and came and crowded
about the little Pilgrim, some standing, some falling down upon their
knees, all with their faces turned towards her. She who had always been
so simple and small, so little used to teach; she was frightened with
the sight of all these strangers crowding, hanging upon her lips,
looking to her for knowledge. She knew not what to do or what to say.
The tears came into her eyes.
"Oh," she said, "I do not know anything about a judgment seat. I know
that our Father is here, and that when we are in trouble we are taken to
Him to be comforted, and that our dear Lord our Brother is among us
every day, and every one may see Him. Listen," she said, standing up
suddenly among them, feeling strong as an angel. "I have seen Him;
though I am nothing, so little as you see, and often silly, never clever
as some of you are, I have seen Him! and so will all of you. There is no
more that I know of," she said softly, clasping her hands. "When you see
Him it comes into your heart what you must do."
And then there was a murmur of voices about her, some saying that was
best, and some wondering if that were all, and some crying if He would
but come now--while the little Pilgrim stood among them with her face
shining, and they all looked at her, asking her to tell them more, to
show them how to find Him. But this was far above what she could do, for
she too was not much more than a stranger, and had little strength. She
would not go back a step, nor desert those who were so anxious to know,
though her heart fluttered almost as it had used to do before she died,
what with her longing to tell them, and knowing that she had no more to
say.
But in that land it is never permitted that one who stands bravely and
fails not shall be left without succour; for it is no longer needful
there to stand even to death, since all dying is over, and all souls are
tested. When it was seen that the little Pilgrim was thus surrounded by
so many that questioned her, there suddenly came about her many others
from the brightness out of which she had come, who, one going to one
hand, and one to another, safely led them into the ways in which their
course lay: so that the Pilgrim was free to lead forth the woman who
had been given her in charge, and whose path lay in a dim, but pleasant
country, outside of that light and gladness in which the Pilgrim's home
was.
"But," she said, "you are not to fear or be cast down, because He goes
likewise by these ways, and there is not a corner in all this land but
He is to be seen passing by; and He will come and speak to you, and lay
His hand upon you; and afterwards everything will be clear, and you will
know what you are to do."
"Stay with me till He comes--oh, stay with me," the woman cried,
clinging to her arm.
"Unless another is sent," the little Pilgrim said. And it was nothing to
her that the air was less bright there, for her mind was full of light,
so that, though her heart still fluttered a little with all that had
passed, she had no longing to return, nor to shorten the way, but went
by the lower road sweetly, with the stranger hanging upon her, who was
stronger and taller than she. Thus they went on, and the Pilgrim told
her all she knew, and everything that came into her heart. And so full
was she of the great things she had to say, that it was a surprise to
her, and left her trembling, when suddenly the woman took away her
clinging hand, and flew forward with arms outspread and a cry of joy.
The little Pilgrim stood still to see, and on the path before them was a
child, coming towards them singing, with a look such as is never seen
but upon the faces of children who have come here early, and who behold
the face of the Father, and have never known fear nor sorrow. The woman
flew and fell at the child's feet, and he put his hand upon her, and
raised her up, and called her "mother." Then he smiled upon the little
Pilgrim, and led her away.
"Now she needs me no longer," said the Pilgrim; and it was a surprise to
her, and for a moment she wondered in herself if it was known that this
child should come so suddenly and her work be over; and also how she was
to return again to the sweet place among the flowers from which she had
come. But when she turned to look if there was any way, she found One
standing by such as she had not yet seen. This was a youth, with a face
just touched with manhood, as at the moment when the boy ends, when all
is still fresh and pure in the heart; but he was taller and greater than
a man.
"I am sent," he said, "little sister, to take you to the Father: because
you have been very faithful, and gone beyond your strength."
And he took the little Pilgrim by the hand, and she knew he was an
angel; and immediately the sweet air melted about them into light, and a
hush came upon her of all thought and all sense, attending till she
should receive the blessing, and her new name, and see what is beyond
telling, and hear and understand:--
THE LITTLE PILGRIM GOES UP HIGHER.
When the little Pilgrim came out of the presence of the Father, she
found herself in the street of a great city. But what she saw and heard
when she was with Him it is not given to the tongue of mortal to say,
for it is beyond words, and beyond even thought. As the mystery of love
is not to be spoken but to be felt, even in the lower earth, so, but
much less, is that great mystery of the love of the Father to be
expressed in words. The little Pilgrim was very happy when she went into
that sacred place, but there was a great awe upon her, and it might even
be said that she was afraid; but when she came out again she feared
nothing, but looked with clear eyes upon all she saw, loving them, but
no more overawed by them, having seen that which is above all. When she
came forth again to her common life--for it is not permitted save for
those who have attained the greatest heights to dwell there--she had no
longer need of any guide, but came alone, knowing where to go, and
walking where it pleased her, with reverence and a great delight in
seeing and knowing all that was around, but no fear. It was a great
city, but it was not like the great cities which she had seen. She
understood as she passed along how it was that those who had been
dazzled but by a passing glance had described the walls and the pavement
as gold. They were like what gold is, beautiful and clear, of a lovely
colour, but softer in tone than metal ever was, and as cool and fresh to
walk upon and to touch as if they had been velvet grass. The buildings
were all beautiful, of every style and form that it is possible to think
of, yet in great harmony, as if every man had followed his own taste,
yet all had been so combined and grouped by the master architect, that
each individual feature enhanced the effect of the rest. Some of the
houses were greater and some smaller, but all of them were rich in
carvings and pictures and lovely decorations, and the effect was as if
the richest materials had been employed, marbles and beautiful
sculptured stone, and wood of beautiful tints, though the little Pilgrim
knew that these were not like the marble and stone she had once known,
but heavenly representatives of them, far better than they. There were
people at work upon them, building new houses and making additions, and
a great many painters painting upon them the history of the people who
lived there, or of others who were worthy that commemoration. And the
streets were full of pleasant sound, and of crowds going and coming, and
the commotion of much business, and many things to do. And this
movement, and the brightness of the air, and the wonderful things that
were to be seen on every side, made the Pilgrim gay, so that she could
have sung with pleasure as she went along. And all who met her smiled,
and every group exchanged greetings as they passed along, all knowing
each other. Many of them, as might be seen, had come there, as she did,
to see the wonders of the beautiful city; and all who lived there were
ready to tell them whatever they desired to know, and show them the
finest houses and the greatest pictures. And this gave a feeling of
holiday and pleasure which was delightful beyond description, for all
the busy people about were full of sympathy with the strangers--bidding
them welcome, inviting them into their houses, making the warmest
fellowship. And friends were meeting continually on every side; but the
Pilgrim had no sense that she was forlorn in being alone, for all were
friends; and it pleased her to watch the others, and see how one turned
this way and one another, every one finding something that delighted
him above all other things. She herself took a great pleasure in
watching a painter, who was standing upon a balcony a little way above
her, painting upon a great fresco: and when he saw this he asked her to
come up beside him and see his work. She asked him a great many
questions about it, and why it was that he was working only at the
draperies of the figures, and did not touch their faces, some of which
were already finished and seemed to be looking at her, as living as she
was, out of the wall, while some were merely outlined as yet. He told
her that he was not a great painter to do this, or to design the great
work, but that the master would come presently, who had the chief
responsibility. "For we have not all the same genius," he said, "and if
I were to paint this head it would not have the gift of life as that one
has; but to stand by and see him put it in, you cannot think what a
happiness that is: for one knows every touch, and just what effect it
will have, though one could not do it one's self; and it is a wonder and
a delight perpetual that it should be done."
The little Pilgrim looked up at him and said, "That is very beautiful to
say. And do you never wish to be like him--to make the lovely, living
faces as well as the other parts?"
"Is not this lovely too?" he said; and showed her how he had just put in
a billowy robe, buoyed out with the wind, and sweeping down from the
shoulders of a stately figure in such free and graceful folds that she
would have liked to take it in her hand and feel the silken texture; and
then he told her how absorbing it was to study the mysteries of colour
and the differences of light. "There is enough in that to make one
happy," he said. "It is thought by some that we will all come to the
higher point with work and thought; but that is not my feeling; and
whether it is so or not what does it matter, for our Father makes no
difference: and all of us are necessary to everything that is done: and
it is almost more delight to see the master do it than to do it with
one's own hand. For one thing, your own work may rejoice you in your
heart, but always with a little trembling, because it is never so
perfect as you would have it--whereas in your master's work you have
full content, because his idea goes beyond yours, and as he makes every
touch you can feel 'that is right--that is complete--that is just as it
ought to be.' Do you understand what I mean?" he said, turning to her
with a smile.
"I understand it perfectly," she cried, clasping her hands together with
the delight of accord. "Don't you think that is one of the things that
are so happy here? you understand at half a word."
"Not everybody," he said, and smiled upon her like a brother; "for we
are not all alike even here."
"Were you a painter?" she said, "in--in the other--?"
"In the old times. I was one of those that strove for the mastery, and
sometimes grudged--We remember these things at times," he said gravely,
"to make us more aware of the blessedness of being content."
"It is long since then?" she said with some wistfulness; upon which he
smiled again.
"So long," he said, "that we have worn out most of our links to the
world below. We have all come away, and those who were after us for
generations. But you are a new-comer."
"And are they all with you? are you all together? do you live as in the
old time?"
Upon this the painter smiled, but not so brightly as before.