A Little Pilgrim. Маргарет Олифант
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