|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 21
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.'
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|