Fighting the battle of life
With not even a stander-by
To cheer me on in the fight
Or hear me if I cry.
Only the Lord can hear,
Only the Lord can see,
The battle within, how dark and drear,
Though quiet the outside be!
It was indeed a dark hour in the history of the little church at Geneva. The Catholics held that the Canon had died a blessed martyr. He was a native of Friburg, and so not only his own party at Geneva, but also the city of Friburg, called upon the Council of Geneva to avenge his death.
He was the great topic of conversation, wonders were related about his death and funeral and the miracles that had followed.
Gerard, summoned hastily by his master one morning, caught the sound of Wernli's name.
“The Council has done nothing," a voice was saying. "The murderer is still at large, and the Gospelers still walk the streets in open daylight. But the Council will soon learn who is the real lord of Geneva. Justice will never be done till the Lord Bishop returns.”
The speaker was a churchman, whose dress betokened a high position in the church. But Bruyere's chief customers were among these, so Gerard felt no surprise. The old man made some cringing reply, then turned to Gerard curtly.
“Bring hither the panel you are carving," he said.
Gerard went to his attic. It was almost finished now, that work upon which he had expended such time and care.
Nothing he had ever done before had meant so much to him. During that dreary winter, the forces of his nature, stifled and blunted in other directions, had found an outlet and expression here. He had put his very heart into it. And since that night of Good Friday, the night so inextricably connected with it in his innermost thoughts, it had held an added interest for him. As he worked upon the face of the Savior the expression had changed; previously there had been nothing but suffering, now there was far more— steadfastness, compassion, love—above all, love.
The lessons of the last few weeks were plainly written there.
“Ah, here it is! reverend Father," old Bruyere said, as the boy brought it in. "As you see, it is nearly finished. A week or two more at the most, and it will be ready. But work like this cannot be hurried.”
The astute face of the priest had been betrayed into a momentary flash of surprise and appreciation.
He stood looking at it for some minutes in silence, once or twice darting a searching glance at Gerard from under his heavy brows.
“So—yes it will do," he said slowly, at length. "Let me have it by the Feast of Corpus Christi. Your work?"—he said, suddenly, turning to the boy. "Who taught you?”
Old Bruyere had been vainly signaling to Gerard to withdraw; he preferred to keep the secret of the boy's achievement to himself; but Gerard was absolutely unconscious of his intentions.
“No one taught me," he said, simply.
“You must have some lessons in the technique," the priest said, and he pointed out one or two details to Gerard, who saw at once the justice of his criticism.
He promised to carry out the suggestion, and then went back to his work like one in a dream.
For the first time he realized the destination of his work—it was to adorn the wall of some church, it was to be a shrine where people would kneel and pray.
A few months—a few weeks ago would he have cared? Indeed, the thought would have pleased him, for he would have had the opportunity of visiting the church sometimes and looking on his beloved workmanship again.
But now—
All day long as he toiled at his usual tasks, scrubbing, cleaning, sweeping, dusting, running errands, carrying messages, one thought blotted out every other.
What was it the Book said?
“Keep yourselves from idols. Flee from idolatry. Thou shalt not make to thyself any graven image... thou shalt not bow down to them, nor worship them... thou shalt worship the Lord thy God, and Him only shalt thou serve.”
All through the weary hours the words echoed and re-echoed. Under his silent exterior the supreme conflict of his young life was being fought out.
Night came at last, but no sleep for Gerard; he drew his little Testament from his pocket and, lying face downwards on the floor, turned over its, pages, and read the words again and again by the glimmer of his rushlight.
“I cannot, oh, I cannot," he almost moaned.
Mignonne lay asleep upon her bed, he was alone under the stars—yet not quite alone.
His face was hidden now in his hands, and scalding tears forced their way under his lids.
“Yet if this be Thy Will, Lord," he prayed. "Help me I for alone I cannot do it.”
That was the end of the battle, and the end of the night. Over the distant snow peaks a faint flash of delicious pink was stealing—he reflection of the dawn, and in Gerard's life, also, the darkness was passed and the true light was shining.
When Mignonne woke next morning the panel which had been for so long the most familiar and most interesting feature in her surroundings, was nowhere to be seen. She looked, as she always did, to see the result of his last evening's work while she slept; but it had vanished, and Gerard, still dressed as when he had left work, was kneeling near the empty grate where a few burnt embers lay and a little handful of white ashes.
The child started up with a cry.
“Where is your carving, Gerard?" she demanded. "Where has it gone?”
Without a word he pointed to the grate.
For a moment Mignonne gazed at him, incredulous and horror-stricken, then she threw herself into his arms and began to cry tempestuously.
“Oh, Gerard, who did it?" she sobbed. "Who could be so wicked, so cruel, to destroy your beautiful work that we loved so well?”
“Don't cry, Mignonne," the boy said gently. "It was I who did it; I, myself.”
“You, Gerard," she repeated, quieted by very wonder. "But why? How could you? Why, you made it! You loved it.”
“Yes, I loved it," he said, very slowly. But it was right—and so God helped me. Some day you will understand. And you remember your verse: 'Herein is love, not that we loved God but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins.'
“That is what helps one. He loved us enough to give His very Son for us. How can we keep anything back after that? It isn't a hard thing to say 'Thy Will be done.' It is glorious—glorious!”
But if poor little Mignonne found the event hard to understand, there was someone else to whom it was incomprehensible. Old Bruyere was almost beside himself with rage.
“Burnt it!" he repeated again and again. “How dared you burn it? It wasn't yours to burn. It was mine—mine. It is I who have fed you, and clothed you, and housed you both all these years, all through this winter. Do you think your work will pay me? It was only the carving that made me do it. And now it is gone. And Fortier, the Bishop's secretary, himself gave me the order for it, so long ago as October, and it was promised for Corpus Christi. He would have paid me—ah, I will not say how many hundred marks. And you have robbed me of them all. You did it to spite me.”
“I did it”— the boy's face was very white and set— “I did it because God has forbidden the worship of images and idols. That was to have been an idol, so I burnt it. Do to me what you will, I will never carve another image for people to pray to as long as I live.”
“The Lutheran dogs have bewitched you," the old man raved. "I suspected it, now I know. But the priests shall hear of it, I will be avenged. Robbed of all my hundreds of marks. But you shall not escape. The Bishop is coming back, and the Gospelers will get their deserts at last. Dr. Morand is at the bottom of this, but I know that of the doctor that will make him sorry he ever interfered between you and me. Where was he on the night of May 4th, eh, tell me that? You don't know, but I do.”
“Dr. Morand has nothing to do with it," Gerard said. "No one has ever spoken to me about it, except God. I will still carve for you as before, anything you like—except images for the church. That I cannot do.”
“Cannot," the old man echoed. "Will not! No, I will never give you the chance to rob me again. You shall never pass another night under this roof. Go, take the child and go. If you are wise you will never let me see your face again. Robber! Thief!”
In his anger he struck a violent blow at the boy. Half-starved, overworked, ill-clad, Gerard had always been, but not otherwise ill-used. The blow found him utterly unprepared; he staggered under the suddenness of it, lost his footing on the staircase, and fell into the passage below.
A minute or two later, Dr. Morand, who was passing near his old home, received a hasty summons. Some people were gathered on the pathway, but they made way for him, disclosing a piteous little group.
Gerard was lying stunned and bleeding on the ground, and little Mignonne was bending over him, trying to lift his head on to her lap and to staunch the blood that was flowing from it.
Without a word the physician set to work to arrest the flow of blood. Not till he had accomplished this did he rise and glance inquiringly round.
“The master struck him and threw him out," Mignonne faltered, shrinking as she saw the doctor glance up at the house. "He told him we were never to come back.”
“Then you never shall," the doctor said, comfortingly, noticing the terror of the poor trembling child, but rather uncertain where his patient was to be taken.
The next moment his mental question was answered.
“Jules," said a gentle voice, "have him taken to our house. 'Tis but a short distance.”
He turned quickly to meet Claudine Levet's sweet, strong face.
“There is the guest chamber always ready for whoever our Master wills to send," she added. "Aimé will be willing. Tell me what you will need and I will hasten on and prepare.”
The physician accepted her offer gladly. He knew what her life had been since her conversion; knew that jewels and costly array had been sold and money given to the poor. Her husband, at first annoyed, had soon been won to Christ also, and together they sought to be just set aside for His service.
Twice over Aimé Levet's shop had been wrecked and his stock flung away, but they had taken cheerfully the spoiling of their goods.
Their house was always open to sufferers for Christ's sake, refugees from France, or preachers passing through. It was with a great sense of relief that Dr. Morand followed the boy as he was carried, still unconscious, to the house on the Rhone Bridge, Mignonne's little hand clasped in his.
She told him as clearly as she could all that happened and why, so that by the time they arrived he had a fairly correct apprehension of the event, and could explain things to Claudine, as she helped him do all that could be done for his patient.
And that was the beginning of a new existence for Gerard and Mignonne. When the boy had struggled back to convalescence and then to health, the Levets would not hear of his leaving them. Gerard was amazed when he found what he could earn by his woodcarving.
Geneva had long been famous for her handicraft. All Europe was her market, and Dr. Morand found no difficulty in putting him in touch with those who would give him plenty of work to do. He found he could easily support himself and Mignonne, and still have time to help Aimé Levet, to study a little, and, above all, for the meetings for worship, for Bible study, and prayer, which were still being held secretly but regularly in the homes of the disciples.
The words he had overheard about the Bishop's return often recurred to his memory. But ere long it was no longer a secret, a rumor spread, then came the actual tidings, the Bishop was to return.
Indolent, pleasure-loving Bishop de la Baume had shown no desire to return to his thorny post at rugged, turbulent Geneva. His luxurious castle in France was far more to his taste, but the call from Friburg, added to the insistent appeals of the priests of his diocese, could no longer be ignored.
All Geneva gathered to witness his entrance into the city, which he had left as a fugitive and in the darkness of night five years before.
Now the one thought was to do him all possible honor in the welcome extended to him. Little Mignonne clapped her little hands in delight as the brilliant pageant swept by in its pomp and magnificence.
But the faces of the Huguenots were set and grave.
“It is the beginning of the end," Aimé Levet said, in a low voice.
But Claudine's face had lost none of its brightness.
“The end of ourselves may be, dear heart," she said, softly. "But the beginning of God's deliverances. It is dark, but not to Him! Verily, of old 'they feared when they entered into the cloud,' but they lived to praise Him the other side. He is still between His people and their enemies.”