“Finding, following, keeping, struggling, Is He sure to bless?”
IT was the night of Saturday, the eighth of November. There was no moon, but the glorious southern stars shone down upon a silent, desolate coast, laved by the tranquil waters of the Great Sea—the sea that washes the shores of the most sacred, the most famous, and the most beautiful lands upon earth. Not far from Cettethe newly constructed seaport for Montpellier and the adjacent country—was a solitary little creek, from which, in the darkness, a two-oared boat put off, containing three persons. Two men were rowing, and a girl, or woman, lay at the bottom of the boat, apparently asleep.
“Give me that oar, Monsieur Gaspard,” said one of the men. “The very sound of it shows that you can scarce keep it going. You are tired to death.”
“Oh, no, no,” said Gaspard, rousing himself, and trying to put a little more strength into his stroke. But in truth he was nearly spent, for the tramp from Montpellier had been long and weary. During the journey Tardif had encouraged his companions by dwelling on the favorable disposition of the Englishman, and his hearty desire to aid their escape; saying that once they were on board his ship and under his protection they would be absolutely safe. But upon anything which might happen after that, he was absolutely silent, scarcely responding to Gaspard’s eager anticipations of what they would do in England, whither he had assumed without question that Tardif was accompanying them. His chief conversation indeed had been about the needs of the hour—their food, their way, the places where they might venture to take a little rest. Gaspard had begun to think he was not like himself. Certainly, when safety seemed in sight, he was less cheerful and far less talkative than when perils surrounded them. And at last a suspicion, soon growing into a fear, arose upon his mind—Could Tardif be thinking of abandoning them, and remaining in France to seek more remunerative work in conducting other parties of Huguenots?
Then, at last, the time had come when he must speak.
“I could not rest now,” he said. “I am tired, of course, but not too tired to talk. Tardif, I have something to ask thee.”
Tardif rested on his oar, and bade Gaspard do the same. “We can stay here,” he said. “We shall see the lights from the ship. One, at the mast-head, will be red. Mind that.”
“Yes. But tell me, when we go on board, what will become of the boat?” The voice of an anxiety much deeper than he confessed throbbed through the common-place question.
Tardif also felt the time had come to speak. He said quietly, “I will row it back.”
“Oh, but—Tardif!”
“Be still, boy, for thy life! Thou’lt upset the boat.” or indeed Gaspard’s sudden motion was making it rock. “Dost mean to say thou wilt not come with us to England?” he asked in a voice of dismay.
“I do.”
“Ah! I’ve been afraid of it, these two days. Thou wouldst never talk with us of England, or of the life there, as thou used to do. But indeed, Tardif, thou must come. We cannot do without thee. And my father—I know I can speak for him—will do all that in him lies to show his gratitude to the preserver of his—his children. What wouldst thou stay for? To bring other parties out?”
“Perhaps. But also because I would see—what I want to see.”
“I think, Tardif, that in France we have seen too much already,” Gaspard answered, sadly.
Tardif hesitated, dipped his oar idly in the water, looked up at the stars, then down again at the sea, and spoke at last, in a tone half eager, half reluctant: “I want to see that which you and mademoiselle—I mean Madame de Montausier—and Monsieur Portal, and the other folk at that Assembly, have seen.”
Gaspard was deeply moved. “I understand,” he said. “Thou wouldst share our Faith. I am glad. But, all the rather, come thou with us to England, where all men believe and love it. They will gladly teach it to thee there.” To Gaspard England was the promised land, and he looked at it through the rose-colored spectacles of ignorant hope.
Tardif shook his head. “That is not the way for me,” he said. “No; I have got my charge. For the present I stay here.” Then, bracing himself up to the hard task of telling his mind: “‘Twas like this,” he began. “At the Assembly I got to feel that the ‘Religion,’ as you call it, was not just like the Government, a kind of thing that might grip me if I got wrong with it, and kill or torture me, unless I squared matters by paying money or the like. The ‘Religion’ meant—not something, but Someone. It meant God, the living God, with whom I had to do, and He with me. And it meant that one could know Him. Some people did. And there was a voice in me that cried out and said I would like to know Him too. Was it not queer?”
“No,” said Gaspard; “it was right.”
“‘Twas right for you. But me!—with the life I have led! All the same the thing in me that wants—wants that—goes on, and will not stop. I tried to think of other things and forget it. When I found that money of De Rignac’s, I thought, ‘Now I will go to England, first arranging to carry on the smuggling trade there with French wines, and such other things. I will start with this gold, and make more, and more, and more, and then live on it all like a prince.’ Yes, that was my plan, and though you did not know about the money, I let you think I would certainly come with you to England. But all that would not do. Then came that night on the canal.” His voice dropped low, and involuntarily his head was bowed in reverence and awe. “I saw the man who was going to his death—a terrible death. And who feared—he confessed it. Yet he went on steadfastly, because he knew that God was with him, and that presently he would be with God. That man took my hand in his, and told me to meet him there. And, God helping me, I will. But how? I thought, somehow, that if I could see his face again I might learn his secret. I did see him. But I only saw then that he had a secret.”
“Why did you not pray?” asked Gaspard. “God hears prayer.”
“I did not know how. It was all dark to me; at least until Wednesday night—that night I told you about De Rignac’s gold—when I had a dream. It was about my old home, and my uncle the priest, who taught me to read and write, and used sometimes to tell me stories of the Saints. I dreamed he came to Montpellier and told me one he used to be particularly fond of—he called it the story of St. Christopher. He was a very strong man, a giant. He knew nothing about God, being a heathen; but he thought that if he could find out the strongest person in all the world, he would worship him. First, he thought it was the devil—and if his country was like ours, I’m sure I don’t wonder. But he soon found out that the devil was afraid of the Cross, and the Cross, he was told, was the sign of Christ. So he went to a priest, and asked him how he should find Christ, that he might worship Him. The priest told him to fast and pray, and do penance. ‘That will never do for me,’ quoth Christopher. ‘If I fast I lose my strength, and would be no good to serve anyone.’ So he left that priest and went to another, who said to him, If thou canst not fast and pray, at least thou canst do a good work. Use thy strength for the Lord Christ. Take thy staff, go down to the swift, strong river that flows nearby, which those have to cross who go on pilgrimage to the great Church beyond. Often they are drowned; but thou, with thy great strength, canst bring them over safely, for Christ’s sake. ‘Good,’ said Christopher, ‘my strength is for that.’ He did it. He worked long and well, and saved many a life. And, at last, Christ came to him.”
“Did thy uncle tell thee that in thy dream? Or didst see it for thyself?” asked Gaspard.
“Oh, I saw it. I had somehow come to think I was Christopher, and that I wanted to see the Lord Christ, whom you pray to, as he did,”
“Tell me the end,” said Gaspard, who had never heard the legend of St. Christopher.
“At last, when he was old and gray, and his strength was failing him, he heard the voice of a little child, that cried to him, ‘Christopher, good, kind Christopher, carry me over.’ It was midnight, cold and dark. But he went out, took the little child in his arms, and carried him. The child grew heavier and heavier, and his strength failed more and more. At last, in mid-stream, he could go no farther: he was sinking. Then suddenly a great glory filled the place. It came from the little child, who had changed to a bright, splendid form, brighter than the sun. For He was the Lord Christ. And Christopher saw Him.”
There was a silence. Then Gaspard said softly, “So wilt thou, dear Tardif.”
“Perhaps—if, like Christopher, I spend my life saving His pilgrims for His sake. But, Monsieur Gaspard, there’s one thing puzzles me. He whom Christopher saw was a little child. But surely the Lord is not a child now, in Heaven, after all these years. No; if one day He should let me see His face, I think it will be like that of the man we saw going to his death, and He will look at me as he did, when he said, I charge thee to meet me there.”
Gaspard gazed at him, wondering. What had taught him this new language? But presently he said, “Perhaps you will never, with your bodily eyes, see anything. It is with the heart we see Christ—when we love Him. And we do love Him, because He first loved us. He loves thee, Tardif.”
“I can believe it now.” Then, with a sudden change of voice, “Look, Monsieur Gaspard, look! See yonder, the lights of a ship. And there’s the red one, God be praised! We must row towards it. And you had better wake madame. Stay, though—a moment first. Here is that purse with De Rignac’s gold you gave me to take care of, thinking I was going to England.”
“No, Tardif, no. That stays with you, to help Christ’s pilgrims out of France.”
“But you must not land penniless in England. It may be a long way from Plymouth, where you land, to this Canterbury you talk of.”
“Monsieur Berbier has given us more than enough. I had to take it, or grieve him sorely. He was like a father to us, all through. God bless him.”
“Then it shall be for Christ’s pilgrims, as you say. Your gift, though—not mine.”
“Nor mine. His for whom you meant it that night on the canal.” Then a thought occurred to him, which made him search beneath his clothing, with a careful hand, for something hidden near his heart. “That is my keepsake for thee,” he said, putting a small bit of folded paper into the hand of Tardif.
He could only ask, with a puzzled air, “What is it?”
“The prayer he wrote for me, that day we met first, when I was a smuggler boy in the forest of Auvergne. I have carried it with me ever since.”
“But ‘tis hard for you to part with it.”
“Not to thee—and every word is printed on my heart. Keep it, best of friends. ‘Tis all I have to give thee. And now I will wake Elene.”
Less than an hour later, Gaspard and Elene stood together on the deck of the English ship. They were watching, with wet eyes, the little boat, a dim speck in the darkness, where Tardif sat motionless, resting on his oars, till the ship should pass out of sight.
“We have seen the last of a true friend,” said Gaspard with a sigh.
Elene’s hand, strong in its tenderness, sought his and found it. “Mon ami,” she said, “He who goes to England with us, stays also in France with him.”
The darkness swallowed the little boat, and brooded over the tall ship as she moved away from the coast of France. Into the hearts of the two who stood upon her deck there stole a strange new sense, unfelt for years. It was the sense of safety. For they knew that above them, at the mast head, there hung the FLAG OF ENGLAND.