"If you would prefer to stop here, we can give you a comfortable bed,"
said Franz, "and Annette will have something to eat. I told her that there was a possibility that you would like to remain."
It was the very thing I wanted, and placing my pole by the side of Franz's in the little shed from which Annette had brought it in the morning, I entered the cottage.
All was still and quiet. It seemed Annette had not heard us; for as the door was opened, she rose from the bedside, where she had been kneeling, and springing lightly to Franz hid her little tear-wet face in his bosom. She did not perceive me, and for a moment there was nothing to be heard but the heavy breathing of the sick man.
"How has he been, Annette?" and Franz unclasped his sister's arm.
"He did not say much till the sun was nearly down, then he began to ask for you, and at last I read him to sleep."
"Can you give us something to eat, Annette? you see I have brought the stranger with me."
She turned with such an air of modesty, dropping a courtesy so very humbly, and yet with a blending of maidenly dignity, that I felt instinctively to bow to the womanhood before me, quaint and picturesque as it was in its black dress, white sleeves, and wooden-heeled shoes.
Giving one glance at the sleeper, Annette slipped out at a side-door; while Franz rising from his straight-backed chair, and dropping on his knees beside the bed, pressed his lips to the furrowed brow. The action seemed to recall the sick man, his breathing was not so heavy and his eyes partly opened.
"Father, you are not sleeping easily; let me turn you on your pillow."
The voice was low and tender, and the action gentle as a woman's.
"Franz!" and the withered hand stroked his light curls. "Franz!" there was nothing more; but oh, what a world of love, of restored confidence! the stiffening tongue lingered fondly on each letter.
The room was large, and there was a general air of neatness; but there was a lack of comforts such as we are accustomed to see at home.
There was no lamp in the room; only on the hearth a pine-knot nearly spent, sending out now a bright light, then wavering, bringing out shadows on the wall, and permitting us to catch glimpses of the outdoor radiance, the silvery effulgence of the rocks and hills.
The sick man slept, and now his breathing was as sweet as an infant's.
I rose to look at him, his bronzed face bleached to a deathly pallor, his high brow seamed with furrows, and his hair like a network of silver falling over the coarse white pillow.
"Has he been long ill?" I asked.
"It is about three months now," and Franz drew up a little stand, and lifted the Bible that had been lying open on the bed to the table.
"Annette spoke of reading him to sleep; was this the book?" I questioned.
"Father has come to like this since he was sick; he don't care for any other."
"Then he has not always liked it?"
"No, sir."
"May I know, Franz, when you first learned to love this book?"
He looked up with such a shy, timid look, and still with the same frankness that had characterized him during the day. Just then Annette entered, whispered to Franz, and both went out. In a moment Franz returned.
"Annette was afraid it would not do; it is the best we have, and I know you must be hungry."
White bread, and strawberries, and goat's milk; while the bottle of sour wine I had seen in the morning graced the table. I had not expected such a tempting meal, and I was hungry, as Franz said. Taking his seat Franz raised his eyes to mine. There was no mistaking its upward, grateful glance. Bowing our heads, we asked a blessing, and then picking up the broken thread, Franz went on to tell me of himself.
Franz's Story.
"It is nearly four years since an English gentleman and his daughter visited Chamouni, and my father was their guide. Mr. Wyndham was a gentleman of refined manners; a Christian man, loving God, and speaking of that love with the earnestness of one who wishes others to love Him also. His daughter Alice, a frail, gentle girl, was one of those beings that seem lent, not given; the last of a large family, and herself not strong. Her father brought her to Lausanne, hoping that pure air and change of scene would restore and invigorate her. I hardly know why, but certain it is that my father was never so much interested in travellers before; while from the first it seemed to me that I could never do enough for the gentle girl, who never failed to inspire me with the love of something beyond what I knew. It was not a tangible idea, and when I tried to reach it I could not. Often in going up the mountain we would stop and rest on some shelf of the rock, while Alice would take her Bible from her pocket, and read the beautiful descriptions of the majesty and glory of the mountain heights, their grandeur and splendor, and then of the great God, creator and ruler of the universe, and kneeling in the cleft of the rock, she would commit herself to him with such a sweet, childlike confidence, I used to weep without knowing what I was weeping for, wishing and longing that I could understand for myself. Whenever she read, and especially when she prayed, my father would listen attentively, taking care when we went home to say nothing about it.
[Illustration]
"I remember one day we had been to 'Le Jardin,' a little spot of green at the foot of the grand Jarasse, framed in with eternal snows, but itself covered with Alpine plants and flowers, and yielding herbage sufficient to tempt the herdsmen to drive their cattle across the Mer de Glace. Her father and mine had gone a little out of the path, leaving me in charge and Alice to rest. Seeing some bright flowers of a peculiar species I stopped to gather them, and when I returned Alice was reading. It was not of Christ's power, glory and majesty, but of his love, the tenderness he felt for us, of his life, and last of all, of his death. I had never heard the story before, and it took entire possession of my spirit. Going down the mountain I was continually asking myself, 'What shall I render to him for all he has suffered on my account? and what for the blessings he has given me?' Thinking of his buffetings, scoffs and scourging, I could hardly keep the tears.
My father observing this, and supposing that I was weary or had hurt myself, was kinder than usual; but when I told him of the little book and what Alice had told me of the love of Jesus, he grew angry and said that the next time they needed a guide I should stay at home. 'I have listened once or twice,' he said, 'because my living depends upon my politeness to strangers; but when it comes to turning the heads of my children it is quite another thing.'
"A few weeks after this Mr. Wyndham left Chamouni for Lausanne.
"'We shall miss you,' said Alice; for my father let me go to bid them good-by; 'and that you may have something to remember me by, I am going to give you this little Bible. You will see that I have marked the passages I want you to study; and you must try to read it every day.'
"It was the very thing that I had wanted, but I could hardly tell her so. Tears were running over my face, and I had barely time to slip the little book into my pocket when my father came up. After that I was happier. I could read for myself, and it was sweet to know that God cared for me. Many a pleasant hour did I enjoy in the mountain passes, and in telling Annette of the treasure I had found in the Bible.
"My father may have suspected this. I hardly know; but one day the priest came to talk to me upbraiding me not a little with reading a book that could do me no good, and demanding that I should give it to him. This I refused to do. He appealed to my father; invectives and blows followed, and at last my father told me that I should either give up the book or never see him or Annette any more. It was a struggle, and I came near giving it up.
"When Annette suggested that I should go to Lausanne and see Mr.
Wyndham and Alice, I had not thought that I could do this, and without delay started. I was received very kindly by Mr. Wyndham. Alice had grown very weak; could not walk, and seldom could ride. I can not tell you how the days passed, neither of the exertion she made to teach me out of my little book. Then came a day when her voice was still, and the next the sweet face was hidden from my sight for ever.
"Soon after this Mr. Wyndham left for England, but before he left he had a long talk with me, and of my plans and hopes for the future. The result was that I was placed in school, of which there are several, in Lausanne, and began to study with reference to being myself a teacher of his blessed word. My little Bible I sent to Annette; but my father would not let me come home. For the last year he has been failing; three months since he took to his bed, and then Annette prevailed upon him to let me come and wait upon him. I found him greatly changed.
From the first he let me read the Book, as he calls it, and of late I feel that he loves Jesus, and trusts him for the future. Living upon his labor, it troubles him that he can do nothing; and this was why I was so anxious to go with you yesterday; he likes to think of me as a guide."
"And I trust you will be a guide," I said, as we left the table and entered the sick-room, "a guide to lead souls to Christ. What a blessed privilege!"
"If I can only do it," and his eyes were full of a holy light.
Annette sat by the bedside; the face of the sick man was as pale as marble, and but for the gentle breathing, we should have thought him already departed. Franz put on a fresh knot, and the red flame sent a rosy tinge over the apartment. Sitting before the fire we watched him as he slept, knowing, feeling that it could not be long. Then a chapter was read, and a prayer went up for strength and guidance.
Franz would not let me watch with him; and leading me into a small room with a clean but somewhat hard bed, left me to myself. Weary as I was, I could not sleep. The glory of the day; the sad, sweet history just related; the sick man, with the messenger waiting at the humble door, thrilled me with a feeling that would not rest. Opening my window, I enjoyed the stillness, the solitude, and the grandeur of the scene: the glittering dome of Mont Blanc, and all the surrounding and inferior domes and spires and pyramids that cluster in this wondrous region, which fancy might conceive the edifices of some great city, or the towers and dome of some vast minster. Far above the mountain-tops the moon was shining; while her retinue of stars, seen through the cool crisp air, seemed larger and more beautiful than I had ever before seen them.
It would be impossible to detail all the thoughts that passed, and the emotions that were excited in my mind. Every object around, beneath, above me seemed in silent but impressive eloquence to celebrate God's praise; from the moon that led the starry train, from the patriarch of his kindred hills and nearest to the heavenly sanctuary, down to the frozen glaciers and the roaring torrents of the lower valleys, all seemed endowed with a peculiar language--a voice to touch the heart of man, and to enter into the ear of God.
At length sleep overpowered me, and when I awoke the sun was shining.
Stepping into the outer room I was met by Franz, looking as fresh as though sleep had not been denied him. Leading me to the bedside, he spoke a few words to his father, while the trembling hand met mine, weak and worn. I saw that his course was nearly run; but there was a light in his eye that spoke of peace. Words were of little use.
After breakfast, which Annette insisted that I should take, I walked down to the inn, and there learned more of Franz than he had been willing to tell me. Not only had he been the means of leading his father to the Saviour, but it was his habit to gather the people together and read to them out of his Bible, telling them of Jesus and of his pure and spotless life, then of his agony and death, picturing his love and his infinite tenderness.
I was not restricted to a set number of days, and for three days I vibrated between the inn and the small cottage on the mountain. On the fourth it was over; the messenger had done his bidding. Franz and Annette were not the only mourners, not a villager but joined them; and when they turned from the grave to the silence of their humble room, I went with them.
Not many days after that the door of the cottage was shut; and when I sailed for my western home, Franz Muller was prosecuting his studies at Basle.
"He is to be a minister," said Annette, as she followed me to the door, "and he says that wherever his work is, I may share it with him."
Her face was lit up with a smile almost as bright as I had seen on Franz's face. Surely the angels know nothing of the rapture of such a work.
Mont Blanc.