A Little Pilgrim - Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant
A LITTLE PILGRIM
By Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant
A LITTLE PILGRIM.
I.
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 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!"