“God has a few of us whom He whispers in the ear.”
THE Protestants abstained from pursuing their ordinary avocations on Catholic festivals and saints’ days―a prudent and conciliatory practice, enjoined by their synods. On All Saints’ Day, therefore, the young Protestants of Trou took advantage of the holiday to bring to the cottage of Jeannette and René a supply of wood for winter firing, prepared it for use, and stored it in the woodshed. This was not by any means the first mark of sympathy shown to the orphans since their return home. Young Jacques Brissac was particularly active in their service. No day passed in which he did not find his way to the cottage, to offer some gift, or to render some assistance. René and he were good friends; yet it was scarcely for René’s sake that he undertook a walk of six or seven miles as a recreation alter his daily work.
René and Jacques were left for a few minutes alone together in the woodshed, whilst their companions were occupied in sorting and laying up in bags, for winter use, the abundant produce of the chestnut tree; and Jeannette was within doors, preparing a meal for the workers.
“René,” said Jacques, glancing round to see that no one else was within hearing. “René, I have something to tell you.”
“What is it, Jacques?”
“You must guard my secret faithfully. I know―at least I suspect―who earned the curse of Judas, the betrayer. A neighbor of ours, too―a―”
“Hush!” cried René, interrupting him with sudden vehemence. “I pray you hush! Breathe not his name in my hearing, Jacques Brissac, lest I should be tempted to kill him. He sold my father to his death!”
The boy’s slight frame was trembling with excitement. Jacques Brissac, himself a stranger to violent emotion, gazed at him in amazement.
“My dear friend,” he said, “I had no intention of giving you pain. I can keep my own counsel, of course. Still, what must become, soon or late, the common talk among the faithful cannot fail to reach your ears. You ought to seek the grace of God to keep you from evil and dangerous thoughts. Remember―”
The rest of the sentence was unspoken.
“Breakfast is ready,” said Jeannette, standing at the door in her simple black dress, and with her sorrowful young face, which yet, through all its sorrow, showed that sunshine had been there, and might be there again. Perhaps that look pleaded with René more strongly than Jacques Brissac could have done, in favor of gentleness and patience, and such things as make for peace.
“Breakfast is ready,” Jeannette repeated. It was long past noon; but the name was given to any meal less formal than dinner. “M. Jacques, will you have the goodness to come in?” This was said with somewhat more ceremony than their long and close intimacy seemed to demand. “And René, brother, do come at once. It is scarce kind to leave me to play the host alone.”
René sighed heavily, replaced on the pile a piece of wood he had thrown down in his agitation, and silently followed his sister and his friend.
He had sufficient occupation in waiting on his guests, and serving the simple meal of bouilli and chestnuts, with light wine, and a dessert of apples, nuts, and winter pears.
The little company were aft young, and they were Frenchmen. Cheerfulness, and even gaiety, soon reigned amongst them; though sympathy for their hosts kept their mirth within bounds.
At last all were gone; even Jacques, who discovered that Jeannette’s spinning wheel needed repair; and, having detached the injured part, carried it off to exercise his skill upon. René then helped his sister to put away the remains of the little feast; and not until order was restored, and the scrupulous neatness of Jeannette fully satisfied, did he say to her, “I am going to take a walk. Do not wait supper for me.”
“Whither are you going?” she inquired. Instead of answering, he kissed her silently. Then she knew. She watched him with tearful eyes, as he strode rapidly up the hill, until he was hidden from her view.
One spot alone had now any attraction for René Plans. A thick mountain mist gathered, descended, wrapped him in its folds; but he did not heed, he only removed his cap, that the tiny drops, like fairy fingers, might touch and cool his burning forehead.
At last the place was reached. René threw himself down on the thick rank grass, mingled with box and rosemary, that covered his father’s grave, and gave way to his bitter, passionate sorrow.
Meanwhile another―a traveler, dressed in a peasant’s rough gray coat of homespun serge, and carrying a staff and wallet―came that way; surely not by accident, since no road to any inhabited place led through the sequestered valley. The elder, Paul Plans, had been a succorer of many; and amongst those to whom he ministered, often at great risk to himself, one might well be found who would seek out his lonely grave, to pay the tribute of a grateful tear beside it.
On perceiving René, the stranger seemed about to tum away, and withdraw in silence. Had the boy been shedding quiet tears of filial sorrow, he would not have disturbed him. But he knew sorrow in all its phases and manifestations. The bitter sobs, the gestures, the very attitude of this young mourner, led him to suspect that his was an unresigned, undisciplined heart. He drew near, stooped down, and gently laid his hand upon him. René looked up, startled, confused―then angry, as the fancy crossed his mind that someone from the village had followed him. Who dared disturb him at such a time? But a glance convinced him that this was no face he had ever seen before.
“My child,” the stranger said (the French make use of this term in addressing a youth or man), “My child, it is not your father who is lying there.”
René half raised himself, and looked again at the speaker. The face bending over him with compassionate interest was still young; but René did not think so, for already thought and toil and suffering had left their traces there. Yet its prevailing expression was peace; not the superficial calm that reigns where conflict has never been, but the deep strong peace that tells of conflict overpast, and victory won. The features were fair and noble; but René only saw that they were those of a man that he could trust. The calm look and quiet eye stilled and subdued his passionate heart, and drew him, unawares, towards this stranger.
He answered sadly, but without anger or sullenness, “Monsieur, I am René Plans. This is my father’s grave.”
“Yet nothing lies here cave the garment, folded up and laid aside when no longer needed. Look up yonder, whither your father has gone to dwell with the Lord he loves.”
“I know he is in heaven, but that does not comfort me. I can only feel that he is dead.”
“René, your father is not dead.”
René did not answer, and the stranger went on, in tones of peculiar tenderness and sweetness, “Do you not know Him who has said, ‘He that liveth and believeth on Me shall never die?’”
“All say that; but such words have no meaning for me,” said René, bitterly. It was easier to unveil the hidden darkness and unbelief of his heart to this stranger than to those who had known him from infancy. “He is not dead, they tell us; he sleeps. As if this were sleep! You can arouse the sleeper. If, perchance, you have loitered by the way, and missed goodnight and pardon, still you say, ‘It will soon be morning; he will awake and speak to me.’ But this great gulf of death―not one word ever comes across it! Not one message from the other side! What is there on that other side? We hear nothing when we listen; we see nothing when we look. Nothing but darkness―darkness. Oh, monsieur, death is very terrible!”
“Death is terrible,” the stranger acquiesced, and he looked as if he had seen it face to face. “But he that liveth and believeth in Christ shall never die.”
“Ah, I remember those words, and I believe them to be true. I know my words are idle, perhaps wicked. My father, I doubt not, is in peace. But I had grieved him. I was wild, thoughtless, forgetful of his wishes. I had disobeyed him, and, to please a fancy of my own, neglected his last command. And now I shall never hear that voice again in words of pardon. Now the grave is between us.”
“Eternity is before you,” said the stranger. “So live that the seed of his holy teaching and example may bring forth fruit in you a hundredfold; and that will be for his rejoicing in the day of reckoning.”
“What if, instead, I stand that day amongst the lost? Fierce thoughts come to me often, as I brood over the treachery and cruelty that cost his Life. Sometimes the only thing worth living for seems to be to avenge him. My mother’s father was one of the ‘Enfans de Dieu,’ and we keep hidden at home the sword he used in the war. He helped to slay the Abbé. I have been shown a dark-red spot on that blade―the tyrant’s blood. If God has not mercy on me, I shall someday plunge that sword into the heart of the man that betrayed my father to his death. Then I shall be a murderer, and have my portion with him who was a murderer from the beginning―never with my sainted father.” The boy spoke with fierce energy, pouring forth all that was within him, in one of those sudden bursts of confidence with which the young so often respond to the touch, at the right moment, of a wise and gentle hand.
“You assume that you ought not to seek revenge; but rather to forgive your enemies, and his, which is harder. How do you know that?”
“Who doubts it? ‘Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us!’”
“You have been learning the Lord’s Prayer backward; going on to the end ere you know the first word. How does it begin?”
“Our Father which art in heaven,” René repeated, mechanically.
“Learn that. Say, ‘our―my’ Father; that word will teach the rest.”
René thought a moment. Then he answered sadly, “I cannot say ‘my’ Father. It may be true; but it does not feel true to me.”
“Look up! The sun is there, over your head.”
“You mock me, monsieur. The mist is thick; there is no sun today.”
“No sun? How, then, do you see my face―your own hand? My child, these things are a parable. God’s love shines still above us and around, though sin and ignorance, like mists, hide it from our view. Yet we are sure of its presence, for even those earthly things which are the dim reflections of it could never have been at all without it. Suppose you had returned in time to kneel at your father’s feet and ask his pardon, would he have spurned you from him in anger? Nay; your heart answers. He would have opened his arms wide to receive you. And thus―”
A passionate burst of tears from René interrupted his words. The storm had been long repressed, and it was violent. Many minutes elapsed before the weeper grew calm again. The stranger made no effort to stay his tears.
In silence, unbroken save by a few gentle words of sympathy, he waited patiently until they ceased. Then he said, “You do well to weep for the treasure you have lost; you will find no greater on earth, though your days may be long in the land. But remember, your father’s love was but the shadow of his who welcomed the returning prodigal. ‘For when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him.’”
“I wish,” said René, amidst his tears, “I wish He would have compassion, and come to me.”
“In that wish,” the stranger answered, “He comes. No one ever yet looked up to Him He had not first looked down upon in love. Tell me―for I know you keep sheep on your mountains―is it the lost lamb who seeks the shepherd, or the shepherd who goes to look for the lost lamb? Have you never, even you, gone to seek a poor little helpless wanderer, and found it, weary and famished, perhaps torn and bleeding, caught in the thicket? The moment it saw your face it knew itself found and safe, and had nothing more to do save to let you take it in your arms, lay it on your shoulder, and bring it home rejoicing.”
“Pray for me, Monsieur le Pasteur!”
“For you, and with you, if you will,” the pastor answered. “Nor could we kneel on holier ground than this.”
René prayed his first real prayer that hour. He could never recall the words exactly, often and earnestly though he tried to do so in after days; but he felt that they went up straight to the listening ear of a Father in heaven.
When they rose, both were silent for a minute’s space; then René’s eyes sparkled with a sudden thought.
“Monsieur le Pasteur,” he said, “may I ask you a question?”
“What makes you think I am a pastor?” the stranger asked in his turn.
“Oh! it is easy to guess that.”
“I deny not my office; and I think I can anticipate your question. You would ask by what right I, a stranger to you, have sought out this place, and come to visit it as the grave of an honored friend. Sit with me on yonder stone, and I will tell you.”
They seated themselves, and the pastor inquired, “Were you aware that your father was one of the elders chosen to represent the church of the Hautes Cévennes, at the general Synod last year?”
The question was not superfluous. The meetings of the memorable Synod of 1744 were shrouded in so much mystery, that an elder who attended them might well have concealed, even from his children, the true object of his hazardous journey. Yet René was able to answer, “We were fully aware of it, monsieur; and many of the good men he met there are well known to us, through his description.”
“No wonder he loved to enlarge on such a theme,” said the pastor with enthusiasm. “I was the youngest in that gathering; yet I never think to see its like again till I see the general assembly and church of the firstborn, whose names are written in heaven. He was there whom our children’s children will honor as the father of the desert churches―Monsieur Antoine Court―who braved the dangers of the long journey from Switzerland, that he might counsel and comfort us in our need. There, too, was our beloved and venerated M. Roger, the apostle of Dauphiny, with the snows of forty years of unwearied labor in his Master’s service on his head, where now there rests a still brighter crown of glory―even that of martyrdom.”
“My father spoke often of him,” said René; “and we know the story of his death. How glorious it was―how triumphant!”
“It was both,” the pastor acquiesced, yet with something of sadness in his tone. “All have not this honor. They whom Christ calls thus to take up his cross, and bear it after Him, draw very near to Him; they put their feet into his footprints; they drink his cup. Their joy in that communion is a mystery, which no man knoweth, save he that receiveth it. But we who follow farther off may thank God for their bright example, and take courage. But,” he resumed, after a pause, “it was of your father I meant to speak. In our colloquies his words were few, but ever full of weight, and rich in the wisdom that dwells with prudence. But sometimes it happened that in our social evening gatherings he was won from his reserve, and conversed freely with one and another amongst us. I well remember one conversation, which may be of interest to you now.”
“Tell me anything of him, monsieur,” said René, earnestly.
“Upon one occasion, when we talked of the sufferings different families had endured for the truth’s sake, he told us that no less than three of his name―his father and two of his uncles―laid down their lives in that cause on the gibbet or the wheel.”
“I knew those tales of martyrdom ere I was six years old,” said René. “They were all ministers. It was Paul Plans who was my grandfather. He was executed at Montpellier, with his brother Étienne, in 1692. My father was then an infant.”
“Some of us,” resumed the pastor, “who knew your father’s worth and his wisdom, remarked that he ought himself to have been a minister. He answered, modestly, that he had not the necessary education. ‘But, he added, I have an only son at home, a bright, intelligent boy. If God would take him, would consecrate him, and use him in his service, He would fulfill the dearest wish of his servant’s heart.’ Those were the words I heard him speak, René Plans.”
René’s eyes filled with tears, and for a space he mused in silence. Then he said, “But that was not, after all, the question I wished to ask you, M. le Pasteur. Where do you intend to sleep tonight?”
“Under God’s roof,” said the pastor cheerfully, as if the heather was the best couch, and the starry sky the best canopy for a November night. Often had he found no other. “Nay, monsieur,” René eagerly interposed. “I entreat of you, come borne with me. You will be quite safe, I assure you. Our cottage is a league from the village, and nearly all the villagers are Protestants. Often has M. Roux slept with us; and more than once, M. Gabriac, Give this joy to my sister and to me, for our father’s sake.”
None knew better than René how costly might be the hospitality he was proffering. The penalty, for affording a pastor even one night’s shelter, was the galleys for life; and the very house, polluted by his presence, must be razed to the ground.
The pastor looked with interest and affection on the bright young face raised pleadingly to his.
“Gladly would I accept your generous offer, René,” he said; “but I cannot. I have been summoned in haste across yonder mountains by my friend, M. Gabriac, who lies ill, and unable to attend several assemblies, at which he is expected. Trou is far out of my way; and already I have lost―or at least spent―more time than I can well spare. Now I must hasten onwards. But, René, will you indeed do me a kindness―a great one―albeit at some cost to yourself?”
“Ah, monsieur, how gladly!”
“Have you ever been at St. Argrheve, in the Vivarais?”
“I was there with my father two years ago. I know the way.”
“Did you see an old farmstead, some three miles from the town—a fair, peaceful spot, lying half hid amidst apple and cherry orchards, in a pleasant valley?”
“I do not remember to have seen it; but I will find it―trust me.”
“Ask for Mazel, the farm and dwelling of Jean Meniet, or Larachette. Anyone will direct you.”
“Yes, monsieur. And then?”
“Give your message to none save to Meniet himself, or to his wife. Say that he whom they expect is hindered from coming to them at this time; but that he will be with them early next month, God willing. By doing this for me, René, you will save my kinsfolk much anxiety. Failing to see or hear from me at the appointed time, they would certainly conclude the worst.”
“I never went on an errand with more pleasure. I shall set out this minute.”
“Do nothing of the kind,” said the pastor, smiling. “You would have to spend a night on the road; whereas, by starting betimes in the morning, you can sleep at Mazel, and return the next day, if, indeed, you escape so soon out of the hands of my brother-in-law, who loves to entertain strangers.”
“Are you sure, M. le Pasteur, that they will understand?”
“Quite sure. You can give them my watchword, ‘The Lord is my shepherd.’”
He thanked René heartily, then rose, and set his face towards the western hills.
“Let me go with you a little way,” pleaded the boy.
“Only to the crown of yonder hill. You must save your strength; the journey you have so kindly undertaken for tomorrow is long.”
René, himself an agile, active mountaineer, yet found it hard to keep pace with the young pastor’s quick elastic steps. They soon reached the parting spot; and there he paused, and pointing to the scene around them, said, “Look, René!”
Fair was the sight that met their view. The mist no longer clung to the ground, but hung above them, high in air, a heavy canopy of cloud. And not without a break: over their heads, through an ever-widening rift, looked down the glorious Cévennol sky, remarkable for its pure intense blue, as though God meant to show his persecuted children the beauty of the home prepared for them beyond it. In the west, too, the sun was gaining the victory, and looking forth, like an eye of fire, between the overhanging clouds and the distant hills. Its long parting rays, which left much else in shadow, touched the valley human love and sorrow had consecrated with a fairer light than theirs, kindled the moist and quivering leaves of the evergreen oaks, and rested tenderly on the elder’s grave.
“At evening time it shall be light,” the pastor said. Then René turned from the glories of earth and sky to gaze with admiration on the fine thoughtful face in which their brightness seemed reflected.
Many things had the pastor of the desert foregone for Christ’s sake―home, safety, ease, earthly pleasure, perhaps earthly love; but there remained to him―
“The beauty, and the wonder, and the power,
The shapes of things, their colors, lights and shades,
Changes, surprises.”
And he enjoyed all these intensely, as God’s own good gifts to his proscribed and persecuted, yet free and happy servant.
“Let us part in the sunshine, René Plans,” he said: “Be thy father thy example; thy father’s God thy trust; and He will never forsake thee. All revoir!”
With these words he turned to go; but in a moment turned again, and, after the simple fashion of his country, embraced the boy.
“All revoir, M. le Pasteur!” said René. “But when and where?” he added, mentally.
He stood watching the tall, slight figure as long as it remained visible. While he did so there came back to him, softened by distance, the sweet tones of the psalm with which the pastor beguiled his way―
“The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want;
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green. He leadeth me
The quiet waters by.”