The Little Pilgrim: Further Experiences. - Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant
THE LITTLE PILGRIM:
Further Experiences
By Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant
I.
THE LITTLE PILGRIM IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN.
The little Pilgrim, whose story has been told in another place, and who
had arrived but lately on the other side, among those who know trouble
and sorrow no more, was one whose heart was always full of pity for the
suffering. And after the first rapture of her arrival, and of the blessed
work which had been given to her to do, and all the wonderful things she
had learned of the new life, there returned to her in the midst of her
happiness so many questions and longing thoughts that They were touched
by them who have the care of the younger brethren, the simple ones of
heaven. These questions did not disturb her peace or joy, for she knew
that which is so often veiled on earth,--that all is accomplished by the
will of the Father, and that nothing can happen but according to His
appointment and under His care. And she was also aware that the end
is as the beginning to Him who knows all, and that nothing is lost that
is in His hand. But though she would herself have willingly borne the
sufferings of earth ten times over for the sake of all that was now hers,
yet it pierced her soul to think of those who were struggling in
darkness, and whose hearts were stifled within them by all the bitterness
of the mortal life. Sometimes she would be ready to cry out with wonder
that the Lord did not hasten His steps and go down again upon the earth
to make all plain; or how the Father himself could restrain His power,
and did not send down ten legions of angels to make all that was wrong
right, and turn all that was mournful into joy.
'It is but for a little time,' said her companions. 'When we have reached
this place we remember no more the anguish.' 'But to them in their
trouble it does not seem a little time,' the Pilgrim said. And in her
heart there rose a great longing. Oh that He would send me! that I might
tell my brethren,--not like the poor man in the land of darkness, of the
gloom and misery of that distant place, but a happier message, of the
light and brightness of this, and how soon all pain would be over. She
would not put this into a prayer, for she knew that to refuse a prayer
is pain to the Father, if in His great glory any pain can be. And then
she reasoned with herself and said, 'What can I tell them, except that
all will soon be well? and this they know, for our Lord has said it; but
I am like them, and I do not understand.'
One fair morning while she turned over these thoughts in her mind there
suddenly came towards her one whom she knew as a sage, of the number of
those who know many mysteries and search into the deep things of the
Father. For a moment she wondered if perhaps he came to reprove her for
too many questionings, and rose up and advanced a little towards him with
folded hands and a thankful heart, to receive the reproof if it should be
so,--for whether it were praise or whether it were blame, it was from the
Father, and a great honor and happiness to receive. But as he came
towards her he smiled and bade her not to fear. 'I am come,' he said, 'to
tell you some things you long to know, and to show you some things that
are hidden to most. Little sister, you are not to be charged with any
mission--'
'Oh, no,' she said, 'oh, no. I was not so presuming--'
'It is not presuming to wish to carry comfort to any soul; but it is
permitted to me to open up to you, so far as I may, some of the secrets.
The secrets of the Father are all beautiful, but there is sorrow in them
as well as joy; and Pain, you know, is one of the great angels at the
door.'
'Is his name Pain? and I took him for Consolation!' the little Pilgrim
said.
'He is not Consolation; he is the schoolmaster whose face is often stern.
But I did not come to tell you of him whom you know; I am going to take
you--back,' the wise man said.
'Back!' She knew what this meant, and a great pleasure, yet mingled with
fear, came into her mind. She hesitated, and looked at him, and did not
know how to accept, though she longed to do so, for at the same time she
was afraid. He smiled when he saw the alarm in her face.
'Do you think,' he said, 'that you are to go this journey on your own
charges? Had you insisted, as some do, to go at all hazards, you might
indeed have feared. And even now I cannot promise that you will not feel
the thorns of the earth as you pass; but you will be cared for, so that
no harm can come.'
'Ah,' she said wistfully, 'it is not for harm--' and could say nothing
more.
He laid his hand upon her arm, and he said, 'Do not fear; though they see
you not, it is yet sweet for a moment to be there, and as you pass, it
brings thoughts of you to their minds.'
For these two understood each other, and knew that to see and yet not be
seen is only a pleasure for those who are most like the Father, and can
love without thought of love in return.
When he touched her, it seemed to the little Pilgrim suddenly that
everything changed round her, and that she was no longer in her own
place, but walking along a weary length of road. It was narrow and rough,
and the skies were dim; and as she went on by the side of her guide she
saw houses and gardens which were to her like the houses that children
build, and the little gardens in which they sow seeds and plant flowers,
and take them up again to see if they are growing. She turned to the
Sage, saying, 'What are--?' and then stopped and gazed again, and burst
out into something that was between laughing and tears. 'For it is home,'
she cried, 'and I did not know it! dear home!' Her heart was remorseful,
as if she had wounded the little diminished place.
'This is what happens with those who have been living in the king's
palaces,' he said with a smile.
'But I love it dearly, I love it dearly!' the little Pilgrim said,
stretching out her hands as if for pardon. He smiled at her, consoling
her; and then his face changed and grew very grave.
'Little sister,' he said, 'you have come not to see happiness but pain.
We want no explanation of the joy, for that flows freely from the heart
of the Father, and all is clear between us and Him; but that which you
desire to know is why trouble should be. Therefore you must think of Him
and be strong, for here is what will rend your heart.'
The little Pilgrim was seized once more with mortal fear. 'O friend,' she
cried, 'I have done with pain. Must I go and see others suffering and do
nothing for them?'
'If anything comes into your heart to do or say, it will be well for
them,' the Sage replied: and he took her by the hand and led her into a
house she knew. She began to know them all now, as her vision became
accustomed to the atmosphere of the earth. She perceived that the sun was
shining, though it had appeared so dim, and that it was a clear summer
morning, very early, with still the colors of the dawn in the east. When
she went indoors, at first she saw nothing, for the room was darkened,
the windows all closed, and a miserable watch-light only burning. In the
bed there lay a child whom she knew. She knew them all,--the mother at
the bedside, the father near the door, even the nurse who was flitting
about disturbing the silence. Her heart gave a great throb when she
recognized them all; and though she had been glad for the first moment to
think that she had come just in time to give welcome to a little brother
stepping out of earth into the better country, a shadow of trouble and
pain enveloped her when she saw the others and remembered and knew. For
he was their beloved child; on all the earth there was nothing they held
so dear. They would have given up their home and all they possessed, and
become poor and homeless and wanderers with joy, if God, as they said,
would have but spared their child. She saw into their hearts and read all
this there; and knowing them, she knew it without even that insight.
Everything they would have given up and rejoiced, if but they might have
kept him. And there he lay, and was about to die. The little Pilgrim
forgot all but the pity of it, and their hearts that were breaking, and
the vacant place that was soon to be. She cried out aloud upon the Father
with a great cry. She forgot that it was a grief to Him in His great
glory to refuse.
There came no reply; but the room grew light as with a reflection out of
heaven, and the child in the bed, who had been moving restlessly in the
weariness of ending life, turned his head towards her, and his eyes
opened wide, and he saw her where she stood. He cried out, 'Look! mother,
mother!' The mother, who was on her knees by the bedside, lifted her head
and cried, 'What is it, what is it, O my darling?' and the father, who
had turned away his face not to see the child die, came nearer to the
bed, hoping they knew not what. Their faces were paler than the face of
the dying, upon which there was light; but no light came to them out of
the hidden heaven. 'Look! she has come for me,' he said; but his voice
was so weak they could not hear him, nor take any comfort. At this the
little Pilgrim put out her arms to him, forgetting in her joy the poor
people who were mourning, and cried out, 'Oh, but I must go with him! I
must take him home!' For this was her own work, and she thought of her
wonderings and her questions no more.
Some one touched her on the shoulder, and she looked round; and behind
her was a great company of the dear children from the better country,
whom the Father had sent, and not her,--lest he should grieve for those
he had left behind,--to come for the child and show him the way. She
paused for a moment, scarcely willing to give him up; but then her
companion touched her and pointed to the other side. Ah, that was
different! The mother lay by the side of the bed, her face turned only to
the little white body which her child had dropped from him as he came out
of his sickness,--her eyes wild with misery, without tears; her feverish
mouth open, but no cry in it. The sword of the angel had gone through and
through her. She did not even writhe upon it, but lay motionless, cut
down, dumb with anguish. The father had turned round again and leaned his
head upon the wall. All was over,--all over! The love and the hope of a
dozen lovely years, the little sweet companion, the daily joy, the future
trust--all--over--as if a child had never been born. Then there rose in
the stillness a great and exceeding bitter cry, 'God!' that was all,
pealing up to heaven, to the Father, whom they could not see in their
anguish, accusing Him, reproaching Him who had done it. Was He their
enemy that He had done it? No man was ever so wicked, ever so cruel but
he would have spared them their boy,--taken everything and spared them
their boy; but God, God! The little Pilgrim stood by and wept. She could
do nothing but weep, weep, her heart aching with the pity and the
anguish. How were they to be told that it was not God, but the Father;
that God was only His common name, His name in law, and that He was the
Father. This was all she could think of; she had not a word to say. And
the boy had shaken his little bright soul out of the sickness and the
weakness with such a look of delight! He knew in a moment! But they--oh,
when, when would they know?
Presently she sat outside in the soft breathing airs and little morning
breezes, and dried her aching eyes. And the Sage who was her companion
soothed her with kind words. 'I said you would feel the thorns as you
passed,' he said. 'We cannot be free of them, we who are of mankind.'
'But oh,' she cried amid her tears, 'why,--why? The air of the earth is
in my eyes, I cannot see. Oh, what pain it is, what misery! Was it
because they loved him too much, and that he drew their hearts away?'
The Sage only shook his head at her, smiling. 'Can one love too much?' he
said.
'O brother, it is very hard to live and to see another--I am confused in
my mind,' said the little Pilgrim, putting her hand to her eyes. 'The
tears of those that weep have got into my soul. To live and see another
die,--that was what I was saying; but the child lives like you and me.
Tell me, for I am confused in my mind.'
'Listen!' said the Sage; and when she listened she heard the sound of the
children going back with a great murmur and ringing of pleasant voices
like silver bells in the air, and among them the voice of the child
asking a thousand questions, calling them by their names. The two
pilgrims listened and laughed to each other for love at the sound of the
children. 'Is it for the little brother that you are troubled?' the Sage
said in her ear.
Then she was ashamed, and turned from the joyful sounds that were
ascending ever higher and higher to the little house that stood below,
with all its windows closed upon the light. It was wrapped in darkness
though the sun was shining, the windows closed as if they never would
open more, and the people within turning their faces to the wall,
covering their eyes that they might not see the light of day. 'O
miserable day!' they were saying; 'O dark hour! O life that will never
smile again!' She sat between earth and heaven, her eyes smiling, but her
mouth beginning to quiver once more. 'Is it to raise their thoughts and
their hearts?' she said.
'Little sister,' said he, 'when the Father speaks to you, it is not for
me nor for another that He speaks. And what He says to you is--' 'Ah,'
said the little Pilgrim, with joy, 'it is for myself, myself alone! As if
I were a great angel, as if I were a saint. It drops into my heart like
the dew. It is what I need, not for you, though I love you, but for me
only. It is my secret between me and Him.'
Her companion bowed his head. 'It is so. And thus has He spoken to the
little child. But what He said or why He said it, is not for you or me to
know. It is His secret; it is between the little one and his Father. Who
can interfere between these two? Many and many are there born on earth
whose work and whose life are ordained elsewhere,--for there is no way of
entrance into the race of man which is the nature of the Lord, but by the
gates of birth; and the work which the Father has to do is so great and
manifold that there are multitudes who do but pass through those gates to
ascend to their work elsewhere. But the Father alone knows whom he has
chosen. It is between the child and Him. It is their secret; it is as you
have said.'
The little Pilgrim was silent for a moment, but then turned her head from
the bright shining of the skies and the voices of the children which
floated farther and farther off, and looked at the house in which there
was sorrow and despair. She pointed towards it, and looked at him who was
her instructor, and had come to show her how these things were.
'They are to blame,' he said; 'but none will blame them. The little life
is hard. The Father, though He is very near, seems far off; and sometimes
even His word is as a dream. It is to them as if they had lost their
child. Can you not remember?--that was what we said. We have lost--'
Then the little Pilgrim, musing, began to smile, but wept again as she
thought of the father and the mother. 'If we were to go,' she said, 'hand
in hand, you and I, and tell them that the Father had need of him, that
it was not for the little life but for the great and beautiful world
above that the child was born; and that he had got great promotion and
was gone with the princes and the angels according as was ordained?
And why should they mourn? Let us go and tell them--'
He shook his head. 'They could not see us; they would not know us. We
should be to them as dreams. If they do not take comfort from our Lord,
how could they take comfort from you and me? We could not bring them back
their child. They want their child, not only to know that all is well
with him,--for they know that all is well with him,--but what they want
is their child. They are to blame; but who shall blame them? Not any one
that is born of woman. How can we tell them what is the Father's secret
and the child's?'
'And yet we could tell them why it must be so?' said the little Pilgrim.
'For they prayed and besought the Lord. O brother, I have no
understanding. For the Lord said, "Ask, and it shall be given you;" and
they asked, yet they are refused.'
'Little sister, the Father must judge between His children; and he must
first be heard who is most concerned. While they were praying, the Father
and the child talked together and said what we know not; but this we
know, that his heart was satisfied with that which was said to him. Must
not the Father do what is best for the child He loves, whatever the other
children may say? Nay, did not our own fathers do this on earth, and we
submitted to them; how much more He who sees all?'
The little Pilgrim stole softly from his side when he had done speaking,
and went back into the darkened house, and saw the mother where she sat
weeping and refusing to be comforted, in her sorrow perceiving not heaven
nor any consolation, nor understanding that her child had gone joyfully
to his Father and her Father, as his soul had required, and as the Lord
had willed. Yet though she had not joy but only anguish in her faith, and
though her eyes were darkened that she could not see, yet the woman
ceased not to call upon God, God, and to hold by Him who had smitten her.
And the father of the child had gone into his chamber and shut the door,
and sat dumb, opening not his mouth, thinking upon his delightsome boy,
and how they had walked together and talked together, and should do so
again nevermore. And in their hearts they reproached their God, the giver
of all, and accused the Lord to His face, as if He had deceived them, yet
clung to Him still, weeping and upbraiding, and would not let Him go. The
little Pilgrim wept too, and said many things to them which they could
not hear. But when she saw that though they were in darkness and misery,
God was in all their thoughts, she bethought herself suddenly of what the
poet had said in the celestial city, and of the songs he sang, which were
a wonder to the Angels and Powers, of the little life and the sorrowful
earth, where men endured all things, yet overcame by the name of the
Lord. When this came into her mind, she rose up again softly with a
sacred awe, and wept not, but did them reverence; for without any light
or guidance in their anguish they yet wavered not, died not, but endured,
and in the end would overcome. It seemed to her that she saw the great
beautiful angels looking on, the great souls that are called to love and
to serve, but not to suffer like the little brethren of the earth; and
that among the princes of heaven there was reverence and awe, and even
envy of those who thus had their garments bathed in blood, and suffered
loss and pain and misery, yet never abandoned their life and the work
that had been given them to do.
As she came forth again comforted, she found the Sage standing with his
face lifted to heaven, smiling still at the sound, though faint and
distant, of the children all calling to each other and shouting together
as they reached the gate. 'Oh, hush!' she said; 'let not the mother hear
them! for it will make her heart more bitter to think she can never hear
again her child's voice.'
'But it is her child's voice,' he said; then very gently, 'they are to
blame; but no one will be found to blame them either in earth or heaven.'
The earth pilgrims went far after this, yet more softly than when they
first left their beautiful country,--for then the little Pilgrim had been
glad, believing that as all had been made clear to her in her own life,
so that all that concerned the life of man should be made clear; but this
was more hard and encompassed with pain and darkness, as that which is in
the doing is always more hard to understand than that which is
accomplished. And she learned now what she had not understood, though her
companion warned her, how sharp are those thorns of earth that pierce the
wayfarer's foot, and that those who come back cannot help but suffer
because of love and fellow-feeling. And she learned that though she could
smile and give thanks to the Father in the recollection of her own griefs
that were past, yet those that are present are too poignant, and to look
upon others in their hour of darkness makes His ways more hard to
comprehend than even when the sorrow is your own.
While she mused thus, there was suddenly revealed to her another sight.
They had gone far before they came to this new scene. Night had crept
over the skies all gray and dark; and the sea came in with a whisper
which sounded to some like the hush of peace, and to some like the voice
of sorrow and moaning, and to some was but the monotony of endless
recurrence, in which was no soul. The skies were dark overhead, but
opened with a clear shining of light which had no color, towards the
west,--for the sun had long gone down, and it was night. The two
travellers perceived a woman who came out of a house all lit with lamps
and firelight, and took the lonely path towards the sea. And the little
Pilgrim knew her, as she had known the father and mother in the darkened
house, and would have joined her with a cry of pleasure; but she
remembered that the friend could not see her or hear her, being wrapped
still in the mortal body, and in a close enveloping mantle of thoughts
and cares. The Sage made her a sign to follow, and these two tender
companions accompanied her who saw them not, walking darkling by the
silent way. The heart of the woman was heavy in her breast. It was so
sore by reason of trouble, and for all the bitter wounds of the past, and
all the fears that beset her life to come, that she walked, not weeping
because of being beyond tears, but as it were bleeding, her thoughts
being in her little way like those of His upon whose brow there once
stood drops as it were of blood; and out of her heart there came a
moaning which was without words. If words had been possible, they would
have been as His also, who said, 'Father, forgive them, for they know not
what they do.' For those who had wounded her were those whom in all the
world she loved most dear; and the quivering of anguish was in her as she
walked, seeking the darkness and the silence, and to hide herself, if
that might be, from her own thoughts. She went along the lonely path with
the stinging of her wounds so keen and sharp that all her body and soul
were as one pain. Greater grief hath no man than this, to be slain and
tortured by those whom he loves. When her soul could speak, this was what
it said 'Father, forgive them! Father, save them!' She had no strength
for more.
This the heavenly pilgrims saw,--for they stood by her as in their own
country, where every thought is clear, and saw her heart. But as they
followed her and looked into her soul--with their hearts, which were
human too, wrung at the sight of hers in its anguish--there suddenly
became visible before them a strange sight such as they had never seen
before. It was like the rising of the sun; but it was not the sun.
Suddenly into the heart upon which they looked there came a great silence
and calm. There was nothing said that even they could hear, nor done that
they could see; but for a moment the throbbing was stilled, and the
anguish calmed, and there came a great peace. The woman in whom this
wonder was wrought was astonished, as they were. She gave a low cry in
the darkness for wonder that the pain had gone from her in an instant, in
the twinkling of an eye. There was no promise made to her that her prayer
would be granted, and no new light given to guide her for the time to
come; but her pain was taken away. She stood hushed, and lifted her eyes;
and the gray of the sea, and the low cloud that was like a canopy above,
and the lightening of colorless light towards the west, entered with
their great quiet into her heart. 'Is this the peace that passeth all
understanding?' she said to herself, confused with the sudden calm. In
all her life it had never so happened to her before,--to be healed of her
grievous wounds, yet without cause; and while no change was wrought, yet
to be put to rest.
'It is our Brother,' said the little Pilgrim, shedding tears of joy. 'It
is the secret of the Lord,' said the Sage; but not even they had seen Him
passing by.
They walked with her softly in the silence, in the sound of the sea, till
the wonder in her was hushed like the pain, and talked with her, though
she knew it not. For very soon questions arose in her heart. 'And oh,'
she said, 'is this the Lord's reply?' with thankfulness and awe; but
because she was human, and knew so little, and was full of impatience,
'Oh, and is this _all_?' was what she next said. 'I asked for _them_, and
Thou hast given to _me_--' then the voice of her heart grew louder, and
she cried, with the sound of the pain coming back, 'I ask one thing, and
Thou givest another. I asked no blessing for me. I asked for them, my
Lord, my God. Give it to them--to them!' with disappointment rising in
her heart. The little Pilgrim laid her hand upon the woman's arm,--for
she was afraid lest our Lord might be displeased, forgetting (for she was
still imperfect) that He sees all that is in the soul, and understands
and takes no offence,--and said quickly, 'Oh, be not afraid; He will save
them too. The blessing will come for them too.'