The Hallam Succession. Amelia E. Barr
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also; but braver than all, wiser than all, was my grandfather Fontaine, who went into the wilderness of Tennessee an apostle of Methodism, with the Bible in his heart and his life in his hand. If I was a man, I would do as Richard always does, lift my hat whenever his name is mentioned.”
“Such ministers are, indeed, spiritual heroes, Miss Fontaine; men, of whom the world is not worthy.”
“Ah, do not say that! It was worthy of Christ. It is worthy of them. They are not extinct. They are still preaching—on the savannas of the southwest—on all the border-lands of civilization—among the savages of the Pacific isles, and the barbarians of Asia and Africa; voices crying in the wilderness, ‘God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son’ for its salvation. A Methodist preacher is necessarily an evangelist. Did you ever happen to read, or to hear Wesley’s ‘charge’ to his preachers?”
“No, I never heard it, Miss Fontaine.”
“If ta knows it, Phyllis, dearie, let him hev it. I’se warrant it’ll fit his office very well.”
“Yes, I know it; I have heard it many a time from my grandfather’s lips. In his old age, when he was addressing young preachers, he never said any thing else to them. ‘Observe,’ charged Wesley, ‘it is not your business to preach so many times, or to take care of this or that society, but to save as many souls as you can.’ ”
“Now, then, that’s enough. Phyllis, dearie, lift t’ candle and both o’ you come wi’ me; I’ve got summat to say mysen happen.”
He had that happy look on his face which people wear who are conscious of having the power to give a pleasant surprise. He led them to a large room above those in the east wing which were specially his own. It was a handsome bedroom, but evidently one that was rarely used.
“Look ‘ee here, now;” and he lifted the candle toward a picture over the fire place. “Who do you mak’ that out to be?”
“John Wesley,” said Phyllis.
“For sure; it’s John Wesley, and in this room he slept at intervals for thirty years. My great grandfather, Squire Gregory Hallam, was a Methodist—one o’ t’ first o’ them—and so you see, Phyllis, my lass, you hev come varry naturally by your way o’ thinking.”
The rector was examining the face with great interest. “It is a wonderful countenance,” he said; “take a look at it, Miss Fontaine, and see if it does not bear out what I accidentally said about La Trappe.”
“No, indeed, it does not! I allow that it is the face of a refined, thorough-bred ecclesiastic. He was the son of the Church.”
“Yes; he came, indeed, from the tribe of Levi.”
“It is a fine, classical, clearly-chiseled face—the face of a scholar and a gentleman.”
“A little of the fanatic in it—admit that. I have seen pictures of grand inquisitors, by Velasquez, which resemble it.”
“You must not say such things, my dear rector. Look again. I admit that it is a clever face, and I have seen it compared to that of Richelieu and Loyola, as uniting the calm iron will and acute eye of the one with the inventive genius and habitual devotion of the other; but I see more than this, there is the permeation of that serenity which comes from an assurance of the love of God.”
“God love thee, Phyllis! Thou’lt be makkin’ a Methodist o’ me, whether I will or no. I hed no idea afore there was a’ that in t’ picture. I wont stay here any longer. Thanks be! It’s sleeping-time, missee.”
“I should like to sleep in this room, squire.”
“Why, then, rector, thou shall. A bit o’ fire and some aired bed-clothes is a’ it wants. Thou’s sure to sleep well in it, and thou’lt hev t’ sunrise to wake thee up.”
And Phyllis thought, when she saw him in the morning, that he had kept some of the sunshine in his face. He was walking up and down the terrace softly humming a tune to himself, and watching the pigeons promenade with little, timid, rapid steps, making their necks change like opals with every movement. The roofs and lintels and the soft earth was still wet, but the sun shone gloriously, and the clear air was full of a thousand scents.
“How beautiful all is, and how happy you look,” and Phyllis put her hand in the rector’s, and let him lead her to the end of the terrace, where she could see the green country flooded with sunshine.
“Did you sleep well in Wesley’s chamber?”
“I slept very well; and this morning the pleasantest thing happened. Upon a little table I saw a Bible lying, and I read the morning lesson, which was a very happy one; then I lifted another book upon the stand. It was ‘The Pilgrim’s Progress;’ and this was the passage I lighted upon: ‘The Pilgrim they laid in a large upper chamber facing the sunrising. The name of the chamber was Peace.’ There was a pencil-mark against the passage, and I fancy John Wesley put it there. It was a little thing, but it has made me very happy.”
“I can understand.”
“God bless you, child! I am sure you can.”
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