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 at 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 or 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 recognized 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 would 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 every thing 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 light-hearted, 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 dullness, 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, when 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 all
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 it 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.
Afterward 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 just 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 afterward, 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 showed 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 toward 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 well-being 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 cares 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 fervor 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 little, 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 forever, 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 toward 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, having 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 had innumerable doors, all
separate and very narrow, so that but one could pass at a time, though
the arch inclosed 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 herself had 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 this 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; 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 see 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
any one 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 afterward
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."
The little Pilgrim raised her up, holding her by her hands; and she 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 she 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 into 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 now
look into your heart. You thought you were very ill at first, but not now
and you think you are afraid; but look into 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 seemed 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 he 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."