YEARS faded and died, changing boys into men in their prime, and these in turn into hoary veterans. An old century was almost ending when Gaspard and Elene de Montausier entered the gate of Canterbury. A new one was far down its second decade when we see them again.
Charles Gaspard—as our old friend calls himself now, to avoid the repetition of his baptismal name—is seated at supper in the same house where he met his father and mother, but not in the same part of it. The largest room on the first floor is now the family reception room, and looks as much like a French salon as an English room can be made to do. Gaspard is a prosperous merchant, and a man much esteemed, both amongst his exiled compatriots and his English fellow-townsmen. His fair and honored wife, Madame Elene, sits beside him. His father and mother, in a hale old age, are here also, and his brother Cyril, now a clergyman of the Church of England. Three little girls sit at table near their mother, and two boys are waiting on the guests, of whom there are several, the occasion being a festive one. The most venerable among them is the aged Pastor Dubordieu. His silver hair and beard betoken his length of years, but he is still able, with assistance, to perform the duties of his office. He has done so this day on behalf of the youngest member of the family—the only one not present at the little festival, although it is given in his honor.
In a lull of the conversation, which was carried on in French, the pastor turned to Gaspard: “That is a fine babe of yours,” he said, “on whose forehead I had the privilege of setting the seal of the New Covenant today. But, if I may ask, how came you to choose the name of Christophe for him? I thought you intended him to bear that of your heroic guide and helper, Gilles Tardif.”
“So I did, and I pray God may make him what Tardif has been a succorer of many.”
“Greater love hath no man than this”—the pastor began.
“Yes, he laid down his life, but not until after he had helped so many of our brethren out of the house of bondage. ‘Twas wonderful he escaped so long.”
“And now,” said the pastor reverently, “his reward is won.”
Both were silent for a space, thinking of the token that had come to them a few weeks before. Only a scrap of paper, a leaf torn from a little notebook, with faded writing upon it—and a dark red stain. The covering letter was from one of a party Tardif had been guiding into Switzerland, through the mountain passes he had learned to know when amongst the robbers. It told how, when nearing the frontier, the fugitives had been betrayed and pursued, and how their intrepid guide had bidden them go on their way, while he remained to parley with the enemy. But, anxious for his safety, they waited, concealed in a neighboring wood. Presently they heard a shot, then all was quiet. At all risks they ventured to steal back. They found the pursuers gone, and Tardif stretched on the grass, dying, but able to smile at them, and to drink the water one of them brought. Then he found voice to say, as he feebly groped for something hidden in his clothes, “Send this to M. Gaspard de Montausier—in Canterbury—which is in England. His parting gift to me.”
Gaspard broke the silence. “My boy is named for him,” he said. “Not Gilles, but Christophe, for that is the name I think he would wish to be remembered by. You recall the legend of St Christopher?”
The pastor bowed his white head, assenting.
“He knew it,” Gaspard resumed. “It came to him like a guiding star, when he was seeking, and could not find, that which his soul desired. For there had dawned upon him that vision of Christ, that dim foreshadowing of what His Presence means, which they who once have seen can nevermore forget. They needs must follow on and on and on, until they find Him. The pagan giant taught Tardif that the way to follow was to do His Will, and that he could do it, just as Christophe did, by conveying His people into safety and peace. Now he has found Him; like Christophe, he sees Him face to face.”
“And I doubt not,” said the pastor, “he has heard His voice saying, ‘Forasmuch as ye did it unto these, ye have done it unto Me.’”
“Therefore,” Gaspard went on, “in gratitude and love, I have called my boy Christophe, and I shall tell him why as soon as he is able to understand. He shall love the memory of Gilles Tardif, who saved his father. And I shall give him, as a precious treasure, that morsel of paper with the handwriting of Claude Brousson and the life-blood of Gilles Tardif upon it.”
A silence followed, for all at the table had been listening to the words of Gaspard. At last the Reverend Cyril Gaspard, in his cassock and his Oxford hood, leant forward and asked, “Monsieur le Pasteur, have you heard of any fresh arrivals since I was here last?”
“Yes, one—a family from Languedoc. And they have news—marvelous news, as it seems to me. They are still at Plymouth, where they have friends. But they have written a letter, which I have brought with me, to share its contents with our friends who are here. Claude, my boy,” he turned to a handsome dark-eyed boy, Gaspard’s eldest son, who stood near, drinking in every word of the conversation, “go thou to where I left my cloak, and bring the pocket-book thou wilt find in it.”
Claude darted off, but returned in an instant, saying there was no book there.
“Ah, this memory of mine!” sighed the old pastor. “Please, Monsieur le Pasteur, I can run to your lodging and fetch the book,” said Claude.
“No, my son. Tomorrow, after service, I shall read the letter to our brethren. And now, I can tell its import. There has been, somewhere in the South, a great assembly of the faithful. Our brave young brother, Monsieur Antoine Court, of whose zeal and courage we have heard ere now, has been solemnly ordained and set apart there for the ministry of the Church under the Cross. And our brethren have so ordered and arranged their matters, that, with God’s aid and blessing, this Church of our fathers is to be once more a visible ‘Church,’ as you call it in your prayer-book, Master Cyril.”
“Where the pure word of God is preached, and the Sacraments be duly administered,” Cyril eagerly supplied the words.
“Duly administered, by pastors regularly ordained through the laying on of hands,” Dubordieu went on.
“Magnificent!” exclaimed the guests; and Gaspard added, with deep feeling, “God be praised!”
“But yet,” interposed Gaspard père— “it is still, ‘the Church under the Cross.’ Do you forget, my friends, that the law of his country dooms every pastor thus ordained to the gallows?”
“That may be changed, now that our great enemy, Louis Quatorze, is dead,” someone observed.
“The law lives on,” returned Gaspard père. “And it may live on still—for a hundred years.”
“And if it does,” returned his son, “I have yet faith to believe there will never be lack of candidates for the calling which has, as its one unique and glorious prize, the crown of martyrdom.”
Dubordieu’s eye rested on the glowing face of the boy. Putting his hand on his shoulder, he drew him gently forward: “Perhaps,” he said, “there is one here.”
Claude Gaspard raised his head proudly, and lifted his young voice unabashed in the presence of his elders: “I had rather be a pastor of the desert, than anything else in the world,” he said.
His father drew the boy close to him without speaking. But one of the guests asked, “Rather than Archbishop of Canterbury?”
“Yes,” said Claude Gaspard.
“Well spoken, nephew mine!” said Cyril. “But see thou speak with all reverence of good Archbishop Wake; for he is, to us and ours, a warm and generous friend.”
(And so he proved himself in after years, contributing liberally to the support of the seminary in Lausanne, founded by Antoine Court for the education of the death-devoted Pastorhood.)
Meanwhile Dubordieu, with the caution of age, began to fear that he had spoken rashly. “My young friend Claude,” he said, “must of course consult his father’s wishes in the choice of a calling.”
Then, from the depths of a heart which had struggled and suffered and overcome, his father spoke: “If, when he grows to man’s estate, my son is of the same mind, and also if he gives token of faith to face the perils, and gifts and graces to perform the duties, of so honorable a calling, I shall bid him God-speed with all my heart. For this path is the path of victory. The Church under the Cross is the Church under the Sign of Conquest.”