Stories told to a child/Chapter 4
DEBORAH'S BOOK.
WHEN I was a little child, I thought what a good thing it would be if I could set out on a pilgrimage. I had been reading the Pilgrim's Progress, and had specially pondered over the account of the wicket gate. The wonderful book which contains the description, and the picture of it, I had read up in a garret in the house of an old lady, to whom I was paying a visit; an old lady who never came down after breakfast till twelve o'clock, who dined at one, drank tea at five, and after that dozed and dreamed in her easy chair. She lived by the sea-side, and was of kin to my mother. I had been sent alone to her. She did not like children, as she told my parents, therefore she could not ask any of my numerous brothers or sisters to visit her at the same time; but I was a quiet little thing, 'shod with velvet,' and contented to sit still and dream over my book; besides, when I worked I could thread my own needle, and the last child that she had invited to stay with her was always teasing her to ring the bell for Deborah to come in and thread her needle. This had made a deep impression on the old lady, and she would often say, 'If I have rung the bell once for Deborah to come in and thread that child's needle, I have rung it fifty times, my dear.' 'Indeed!' my mother would reply; and add, with pretty maternal pride, 'my little girls are all particularly clever with their needle.'
'So they are, my dear,' our aged relation would answer; and she once added, 'As for this little thing, she mended my gloves the other day like a woman, and then came up to me so prettily, "Are these stitches small enough, do you think, Mrs. Wells? there's rather a long one here, but I can pull it out if you like." "Yes, my dear," said I, "that will do." I couldn't see one of 'em without my spectacles! You may send her to me, and welcome, Fanny, if you like. I dare say the sea air will do her good—a poor little aguish thing.' So I was sent, or rather brought over by my father, together with my knitting and my netting, my little work-box, my story-books, and my Peep of Day. I felt what a fine thing it was to go out on a visit, and what a matter of rejoicing it was that my cheeks were not round and rosy, like the cheeks of my brothers and sisters; besides, mamma had put a new blue veil on my bonnet, to shade me from the sun, and had given me a parasol a thing that I had never possessed before, for I was only six years old. Therefore, as I said, a natural elation resulting from conscious ill-health, and some new property, took entire possession of my little heart; and as I sat in the gig by papa's side, I drew myself up as much as I could, and hoped the passers-by, seeing me with my veil and my parasol, would think I was a grown-up lady.
Mamma had given me five things to remember, and had counted them over to me on the fingers of my hand, after she had put my new gloves on.
I was never to forget to say my prayers; I was to write to her twice a week; I was always to change my shoes when I came in from a walk; I was to keep my room very tidy; and (greatest charge of all, as I thought at the time) I was honestly to tell the housemaid, when I was sent up to bed, that mamma did not wish me to put out my own candle. I was very anxious to persuade mamma that I could put it out myself, therefore she was the more urgent in impressing upon me that she would not allow it; and, in taking leave of her, and during the drive to the sea, I thought very much (when I was not thinking of my veil and my parasol) about that candle.
We reached the house. Mrs. Wells did not come out to meet us, but received us rather cordially, though she reminded my father that he had promised to be in time for dinner, and that he was full ten minutes late; he made some trifling excuse, we sat down to this early meal, and very shortly after my father took his leave. Then, as I well remember, my relative rang the bell, and sent for Deborah. Deborah, a rough, red-cheeked young woman, came in, and her mistress addressed her with, 'Now, Deborah, I hope you haven't forgotten my orders about the garret.'
'No, ma'am,' said Deborah, 'and I've scrubbed it and dusted it, and laid out the half-crown you gave me for toys; and if miss makes all the noise she can there, you'll never hear her.'
'That's right, Deborah,' replied my relative languidly. 'Go up with Miss Rosamond, and show her the room; there, go away, my dear, till tea-time.'
So I went up stairs demurely, not the less so because Deborah kept looking at me; and when we got into the garret I found it perfectly empty, literally empty of furniture, excepting that there was one ottoman footstool on the floor which was heaped with paper parcels.
'Well, now,' said Deborah, addressing herself, 'didn't I say, over and over again, that I would contrive a table for this child—what a head I have!' and so saying, she flounced out of the room, bringing back, in a few minutes, the smooth lid of a very large deal box, and two light bedroom chairs. Setting them some distance apart, she laid the flat lid on their seats, and it made a capital table, just the right height for me to sit before on the ottoman. She quickly picked up the parcels, and laying them on my table, exclaimed, 'There, missy, now see if that is not a good half-crown's worth. Mistress said you were to play up here, and when I told her there was nothing to play with, she said I might go to the shop down town, and lay out half-a-crown. See here!'
I opened the parcels, and found in one, to my great joy, a dozen Dutch dolls, with lanky legs, and high plaited hair, fastened with the conventional golden comb that Dutch dolls always wear; in another I found a toy-box of pewter tea-things, and a similar box of lambs upon a movable stretcher; and in two more was a quantity of doll's furniture. I was exceedingly content, the more so when Deborah, going out again, presently appeared with a bandbox full of odds and ends, with which, she said, I might dress my dolls; and two books, with pictures in them. These last, she said, I might look at as often as I liked, but I must not tear them; they were hers. So saying, she left me, and if ever I was happy in my life I was happy then. All by myself, plenty of new toys, a table on purpose for me, and a little window, which, when I stood upon my ottoman and looked out, showed me the long waste of salmon-colored sand, and the bathing-machines left high and dry, and the green sea tumbling at a distance; and the happy little shrimpers with their nets, whose absolute duty it was to do what all children long to do as a pleasure—take off their shoes and stockings and splash about in the warm salt water. What delight to have all these things, and quiet to observe them in, and leisure to enjoy them! The nursery at home had plenty of toys in it, but there were two babies there, who must not be awakened by any games of play while they slept, and when they were awake it always resounded with such laughing and jumping, such pushing and running, such crying, quarrelling, and making it up again (unhappily for this divided world a more easy thing in chidhood than afterwards), that there was no time for enjoying play, and no quiet for reading even the prettiest story. 'Master John, be quiet; your shouting goes through my head; O, deary me, Miss Mary, do sit down and keep quiet; Miss Alice, if you can't leave off that crying, I really must call your mamma,' were the constant complaints heard in our nursery; but childhood, on the whole, is a happy time, though a cross nurse does now and then overshadow it with gloom.
Well, there I was. In due time I was called down to tea, and asked whether I liked my playroom. I said I did, and that I was very happy. My relation answered, as if to be contented and happy was a merit—'Good child.' After that she gave me some shrimps, and when tea was over sent me out for a walk on the beach. The servant who walked with me was as silent as her mistress. I came home, went to bed, and got up again the next day, still feeling very happy; but the quietude of everything around me was working its due and natural effect in making me quieter still. To meet it, and to harmonize with it, I did not talk aloud to my Dutch dolls, nor scold them in imitation of our nurse's accents; but I whispered to them, and moved about my playroom noiselessly. 'Are you happy, my dear?' asked my relation again, when I came down to dinner; and I answered again, 'Yes, ma'am.' And so several days passed, and the servants, as well as the mistress, praised me, and called me the best and the quietest child that ever came into a house—no trouble at all, and as neat as a nun! But I was beginning to be strangely in want of change. I wished my sister Bella, or even my noisy brother Tom, could see my twelve dolls, all dressed in the grandest gowns possible, and could help me to dry the sea-weeds that I brought in from the sea-beach. On the fourth day I bethought myself of the two books, and I well remember taking one of them to the little open window, laying it down on the sill, and opening it. What a curious picture! A man with a heavy burden on his back, standing before a high gate, and over the gate a scroll. 'Knock,' was written upon the scroll, 'and it shall be opened unto you.' The man seemed to be considering whether he would knock, and a number of angel faces were looking out from among the clouds to see whether he would.
I looked at that picture a long time, then began one by one to examine the numerous woodcuts which adorned the book. There were lions and hobgoblins, and giants, and angels, and martyrs, and there was the river flowing before the golden gates; nothing that could awe the imagination and take hold on the spirit of a child was wanting.
Specially I remember dwelling, with childish reverence, on the picture of the river, and the pilgrim entering into its depths; and pondering over the strange and to me unintelligible meaning of the beautiful words,—
'Now there was a great calm at that time in the river; therefore Mr. Standfast, when he was about half-way in, he stood awhile, and talked to his companions that had waited upon him thither; and he said—
'"This river hath been a terror to many; yea, the thoughts of it also have often frightened me: now methinks I stand easy: my foot is fixed upon that upon which the feet of the priests that bare the ark of the covenant stood, while Israel went over this Jordan.
'"The waters indeed are to the palate bitter, and to the stomach cold; yet the thoughts of what I am going to, and the conduct that awaits me on the other side, doth lie as glowing coal at my heart. . . . . I have formerly lived by hearsay and by faith, but now I go where I shall live by sight, and shall be with Him in whose company I delight myself.
'" I have loved to hear my Lord spoken of, and wherever I have seen the print of his shoe in the earth, there have I coveted to set my foot too."'
Extraordinary words! their pathos and their sweetness reached into my heart even at that early day, though their meaning was shrouded in the veil that gathers round the path of childhood. I hung over the picture, and hoped the man with the solemn face would get safely to that golden gate; but I was very much afraid for him, the river looked so deep. I looked at the angel who stooped above him in the air with a crown in his hand. No doubt he would soon put it on. Then I read the last few pages, beginning with how the pilgrims reached the land of Beulah, 'where the sun shineth night and day.' What a wonderful river! I supposed it must be a long way oft", perhaps not in England at all, and England was a large place; but I thought I should like to find it some day, and did not know that 'some day' I inevitably should.
That night, when Deborah was curling my hair, I said to her, 'Deborah, does Mrs. Wells know you have got that book about the pilgrims?'
'Can't say;' replied Deborah; 'may be she does, may be not.'
I replied, 'Then hadn't you better tell her?'
'Bless the child, why?' said Deborah.
I am not sure that I explained why, or perfectly knew why, but I had an impression that nobody else had such a book, but only Deborah; and probably my remarks made her see this, for I distinctly remember her declaring that Mr. Pipe, the bookseller down town, had a great many copies of that very book; that she was sure of it, and that she herself had seen them.
My next question I remember clearly, owing, perhaps, to her making me repeat it several times. It was, 'Have you ever seen the wicket gate?'
Deborah stood as if bewildered when I repeated the query. At last, her face suddenly cleared, and she exclaimed, 'Bless the child, I thought she meant the real thing, that I did! Yes, my pretty; I've seen it, to be sure, and a very pretty picture it is—Christian just a-going to knock at the door, and ever so many angels looking on. Hold your head still, Miss Rosamond—how the sea air does take your hair out of curl!'
'Then,' said I, 'you have only seen the picture, just the same as I have.'
I do not remember what followed, excepting that, as Deborah clearly had not seen the wicket gate, I began to inquire whether anybody in the neighborhood had seen it, and whether Mr. Pipe had seen it, or had ever been to look for it.
Deborah, to all and each of my questions, replied, that she did not believe anybody had seen it, or had been to look for it; that if anybody knew anything about it, she should judge Mr. Pipe did, for she often saw him reading in his shop as she went by, and everybody said he was a very religious man. Deborah, in answer to my urgent questions, was induced to say that she judged the wicket gate must be a long way off; and when I inquired whether it was farther off than Dungeness, that is to say, more than ten miles off, she said, ' Yes, it must be a deal farther, I think.' Moreover she drew my curtains, and placed me in bed, and, kissing me, added that I was a little girl, and need not to trouble my head about any wicket gate, nor nothing of the sort; that I should find out what it all meant when I was older; but she could not explain it to me now, as I was not able to understand it.
Children do not lie awake to think of anything, however wonderful. At least I never did, nor did I ever know a child who did, excepting in a book. I fell asleep, and after that two or three mornings passed, during which I was absorbed in my book, and full of wonder as to whether I ought not to go on pilgrimage too. In my exceeding simplicity of mind, I began to save pieces of bread from my meals, and sugar-plums and cake that had been given me, to take with me on the journey; and, as being found quite trustworthy, I was now allowed every day to go out on the beach by myself, or to play in the little belt of wood behind my relative's house. I spent hours in speculating as to whether the lions were not so far off that one could not hear them roar if those waves would leave off surging and splashing among the pebbles; and whether, if I did set out on pilgrimage, Evangelist would be likely to come and show me the way.
One night, while Deborah was again curling my hair, I looked at the red glowing clouds piled up in the glorious west, and reflecting their splendor upon the sea, and I remember certain things that she and I said together. I have no doubt that she had no and when I inquired whether it was farther off than Dungeness, that is to say, more than ten miles off, she said, ' Yes, it must be a deal farther, I think.' Moreover she drew my curtains, and placed me in bed, and, kissing me, added that I was a little girl, and need not to trouble my head about any wicket gate, nor nothing of the sort; that I should find out what it all meant when I was older; but she could not explain it to me now, as I was not able to understand it.
Children do not lie awake to think of anything, however wonderful. At least I never did, nor did I ever know a child who did, excepting in a book. I fell asleep, and after that two or three mornings passed, during which I was absorbed in my book, and full of wonder as to whether I ought not to go on pilgrimage too. In my exceeding simplicity of mind, I began to save pieces of bread from my meals, and sugar-plums and cake that had been given me, to take with me on the journey; and, as being found quite trustworthy, I was now allowed every day to go out on the beach by myself, or to play in the little belt of wood behind my relative's house. I spent hours in speculating as to whether the lions were not so far off that one could not hear them roar if those waves would leave off surging and splashing among the pebbles; and whether, if I did set out on pilgrimage, Evangelist would be likely to come and show me the way.
One night, while Deborah was again curling my hair, I looked at the red glowing clouds piled up in the glorious west, and reflecting their splendor upon the sea, and I remember certain things that she and I said together. I have no doubt that she had no intention of conveying a false impression to my mind, though she certainly did so; for. I recollect asking her distinctly, whether she thought I might go on a pilgrimage. Whereupon she answered, 'Surely, surely, Miss Rosamond.'
I might, then!
She also told me that the narrow road along which Christian went, and which led to the city of the golden gates, was the road that we all ought to walk in; and, without at all explaining the allegory, she proceeded to say that it led to heaven.
I went to bed resolved to go on pilgrimage, and when, the next morning, I was told to put on my bonnet and tippet, to go out and play as usual, I took all the pieces of bread that I had saved, and my favorite Dutch doll with a red frock, that I thought I could not part with, and went out.
I went through the garden, and into the little belt of wood. Here I sat down, and began to ponder. Assuredly the wonderful story had said that there was but one way to get to heaven, and that was through the wicket gate. How should I, O, how should I find this wicket gate! I think that, in my perplexity and fear lest it was my own fault that I could not find the gate, I began to cry; certainly I have a sort of recollection that my eyes were dazzled and dim, and that when they cleared, some small brown object, which stood at my feet, upon a dwarf fox-glove, suddenly spread open a pair of lovely blue wings. A butterfly! O, the most beautiful little butterfly in the world! All thoughts of pilgrimage fled away as it fluttered its wings and floated oft' to another flower, drawing me after it as surely as many a pretty thing of no higher worth has drawn older hearts from their thoughts of pilgrimage. I ran after it, stopped again and saw it settle, close up, and show me once more those brown wings, mottled with silver, and shaded oft' into the softest fawn color. I was close to it, and took off my veil, my blue veil, which I always wore, hoping to catch it; but it flew away again; and presently, as I looked, I saw two butterflies instead of one—my beauty had met with a companion—and they were fluttering together towards the great down which lay behind the wood.
To this place I followed, and, running after them over a few yards of short grass, I came to a deep hollow, full of ferns, and edged with camomile, bird's-eye, and dwarf thistles. There, basking in the sun, some hanging to the leaves with folded wings, some spreading them to the light and warmth, I counted blue butterflies by tens and by twenties, and in breathless ecstasy stood considering how I should appropriate some of them, and get them to live happily in my veil, with some flowers, and my splendid Dutch doll, in her red damask gown, for their lady and queen.
About an hour was probably passed in catching a sufficient number for my purpose. It was difficult to do this without hurting them, and as fast as I captured one with my veil others escaped; at last I had about a dozen, and collecting some of the prettiest red and white flowers, and setting my doll among them, I tied up the veil with its own strings, and not doubting that the butterflies must be proud and happy in such a splendid prison, I emerged from the hollow, and set my feet again upon the open down; but this winding hollow was a long one—I had followed it probably for half a mile—and when I came up again there was a green hill between me and the sea, and I did not exactly know where I was; so I turned in the other direction, and I well remember the sudden surprise, amazement I may say, with which I saw one of the commonest sights possible—namely, a narrow path, in which I was standing, and which, with many windings and meanderings, led away over the open grass, and lost itself in the distance among confused outlines of the swelling hills. Could this be the narrow way?
I cannot say that I was satisfied by any means to think that it was, but my mind was filled with childish awe, and I went a little way along it till, casting my eyes not more than half-a-mile before me, I saw,—O, wonderful! almost terrible sight! it was so convincing, and brought the dreamy wonder so near,—I saw, toiling on before me, a man with a burden on his back; a man that now I should call a pedler; but then it was, and could only be, a pilgrim. So then, this was the narrow path; and in the plentitude of my infantine simplicity I wondered whether the people down town knew of it; and I went on, still carefully carrying my pretty blue flutterers, for perhaps a mile, when, to my utter confusion, the path branched into three—three distinct paths—and, what was more, the pilgrim whom I was following had descended into a hollow, and had disappeared.
Which of these three paths, then, should I follow? One of them seemed to lead back again towards the town; a second, I thought, was rather too wide and too straight; so I chose the third for my little feet, especially as I thought it was the one in which I had last seen the pedler—I mean the pilgrim—I hope he may have been one.
Not to make my story too long, I wandered about till grass began to be mingled with ferns, and ferns gave place to ling, then in full blosom; at last my path fairly ended, and before me rose a sandy beach, crowned with dwarf oaks, and sprinkled with foxgloves and furze. I had quite lost my way, and my path had been swallowed up in verdure. I was in a great perplexity; and, after climbing to the top of the bank, I looked around and found myself at the brink of a great open place, part down, part heath, intersected with many paths, but no one more like than another to the path that led to the wicket gate. I looked back and saw several better tracks, but could not be sure which was the one I had come by; so large, and so smooth, and so uniform was the waste of grass which, owing to my having attained an elevated spot, was now lying spread before me.
It may have then been about noonday, and I had perhaps been out about three hours; so I was neither tired nor hungry as yet, and kept wandering about in search of the way. At last I saw an elderly gentleman coming towards me on a little pony. He certainly was not a pilgrim; and yet I rejoiced to see him. Mamma had never told me not to look for the wicket gate, therefore, however strange it may appear, I certainly had no consciousness of doing wrong. I had been crying a little before he appeared, not knowing what to do, nor where to turn; and when he approached I was considering what I should say, when he saved me the trouble, and exclaimed, not without a look of surprise, 'Where is your nurse, little girl?'
'Nurse is at home with mamma,' I replied.
'And what are you doing here all by yourself?' he asked.
I replied in all simplicity, 'If you please, I am looking for the wicket gate.'
'The wicket gate! Humph. Well,' shading his eyes and staring around, 'I don't see one. Is it a white gate?'
'I don't know, sir.'
'You don't know! You are a very little girl to be finding your way by yourself in such a place as this. Do you know which side of the heath it is on?'
'No, sir.'
'Well, well,' rejoined my questioner, with great impatience, 'do you know where it leads to?'
'O, yes, sir; it leads to heaven.' Here at least was one question that I could answer; but never shall I forget the face of blank amazement with which he heard me. I was rather frightened at it, and began to explain, in a great hurry, that I had read in the Pilgrim's Progress about the wicket gate, and that Deborah had said I might go on pilgrimage; and after this incoherent account I began to cry piteously, and begged the gentleman, if he could not show me the way to the gate, to tell me the way home, because my relative would be so angry, so very angry, if I was late for dinner.
He had descended from his pony, and now asked abruptly, 'How old are you, child?'
'Six years and a half,' I replied, sobbing.
'Six years and a half,' was his not very proper answer, 'and looking out for heaven already!' But being now really alarmed as to whether I should ever find either the gate or my home again, I cried and sobbed heartily, till he sat down on the bank, and taking me on his knee, began to wipe my eyes with his silk pocket-handkerchief, and assure me that he would soon take me home again, for that he knew the way quite well; we were not more than two miles from the beach, and so I need not cry, for we should set off home as soon as I could leave off sobbing.
Thereupon being at ease in my mind, and perfectly satisfied in the good company of the elderly gentleman, he and I 'fell into easy discourse' together. He seemed anxious to investigate this rather strange fancy, and he asked me what I had intended to eat on my pilgrimage. I showed him the various pieces of stale bread and bun that I had saved, and he fell into explosions of loud laughter, which left his face crimson, and his eyes full of tears; but he must have been a very kind elderly gentleman, for he shortly after set me on his little pony, and as he led it homewards over the down, he not only assured me that we should be back in time for dinner, but he took a great deal of pains to impress on my mind that I was never to try to go on pilgrimage again while I was staying at the sea-side, nor afterwards without consulting my mamma. I promised that I would not; and in a very short space of time, as it seemed to me, we came down to the beach, and found ourselves at my relative's gate. Here, as I well remember, my dread of being late induced me to beg my new friend not to leave me till I had ascertained that dinner was not ready; so he left his pony at the gate, and came up to the door. His ring at the bell was soon answered; he explained to the maid that I had lost my way on the downs, and he had brought me home. I was comforted with the assurance that I was just in time for dinner, so I gratefully kissed my new friend, and took leave of him.
Thus ended my first attempt at pilgrimage, leaving nothing behind it but a veil full of blue butterflies. I know it was a childish attempt, but I believe it was sincere; it had something of that faith about it which made the patriarch content long since to 'go forth, not knowing whither he went;' but it was an ignorant faith, and one that would not give up all; it must needs carry a doll with it for comfort and admiration by the way, and it could not help gathering butterflies, things too lovely and too precious, as it seemed, to be passed by. To the follies of our childhood, and for its faults and its short-comings, He will be tender who knows the heart of a child; but if since childhood, setting forth on pilgrimage, we have striven to take with us the goods and the delights of this world; if we have turned back again, lest our friends should be displeased; if we have wavered because any laughed at us, let us pray not only that He 'would forgive us our trespasses,' but that He would 'pardon the iniquity of our holy things.'