A SMALL CLOUD.
This sort of intercourse, growing in frequency and fulness, went on for
about a week, till Agellius was able to walk with support, and to leave
the cottage. The priest and his own slave took him between them, and
seated him one evening in sight of the glorious prospect, traversed by the
long shadow of the far mountains, behind which the sun was making its way.
The air was filled with a thousand odours; the brilliant colouring of the
western heavens was contrasted with the more sober but varied tints of the
rich country. The wheat and barley harvest was over; but the beans were
late, and still stood in the fields. The olives and chestnut-trees were
full of fruit; the early fig was supplying the markets with food; and the
numerous vineyards were patiently awaiting the suns of the next month
slowly to perfect their present promise. The beautiful scene had a moral
dignity, from its associations with human sustenance and well-being. The
inexpressible calmness of evening was flung, like a robe, over it. Its
sweetness was too much for one who had been confined to the monotony of a
sick-room, and was still an invalid. He sat silent, and in tears. It was
life from the dead; and he felt he had risen to a different life. And thus
he came out evening after evening convalescent, gradually and surely
advancing to perfect restoration of his health.
One evening he said, after feeding his eyes and thoughts for some time
with the prospect, “ ‘Mansueti hereditabunt terram.’ They alone have real
enjoyment of this earth who believe in its Maker. Every breath of air
seems to whisper how good He is to me.”
Cæcilius answered, “These sights are the shadows of that fairer Paradise
which is our home, where there is no beast of prey, no venomous reptile,
no sin. My child, should _I_ not feel this more than you? Those who are
shut up in crowded cities see but the work of man, which is evil. It is
the compensation of my flight from Carthage that I am brought before the
face of God.”
“The heathen worship all this, as if God Himself,” said Agellius; “how
strange it seems to me that any one can forget the Creator in His works!”
Cæcilius was silent for a moment, and sighed; he then said, “You have ever
been a Christian, Agellius.”
“And you have not, my father?” answered he; “well, you have earned that
grace which came to me freely.”
“Agellius,” said the priest, “it comes freely to all; and is only merited
when it has already prevailed. Yet I think you earned it too, else why the
difference between you and your brother?”
“What do you know of us?” asked Agellius quickly.
“Not a great deal,” answered he, “yet something. Three or four years back
an effort was made to rekindle the Christian spirit in these parts, and to
do something for the churches of the proconsulate, and to fill up the
vacant sees. Nothing has come of it as yet; but steps were taken towards
it: one was to obtain a recovery of the Christians who remained in them. I
was sent here for that purpose, and in this way heard of you and your
brother. When my life was threatened by the persecution, and I had to
flee, I thought of your cottage. I was obliged to act secretly, as we did
not know friends from foes.”
“You were led here for other purposes towards _me_, my father,” said
Agellius; “yet you cannot have a safer refuge. There is nothing to
disturb, nothing to cause suspicion here. In this harvest time numbers of
strangers pour in from the mountains, of various races; there is nothing
to distinguish you from one of them, and my brother is away convoying some
grain to Carthage. Persecution drove you hither, but you have not been
suffered to be idle, my father, you have brought home a wanderer.” He
added, after a pause, “I am well enough to go to confession to you now.
May it be this evening?”
“It will be well,” answered Cæcilius; “how long I shall still be here, I
cannot tell. I am expecting my trusty messenger with despatches. It is now
three days since he was here. However, this I say without misgiving, we do
not part for long. What do you here longer? you must come to me. I must
prepare you, and send you back to Sicca, to collect and restore this
scattered flock.”
Agellius turned, and leaned against the priest’s shoulder, and laughed. “I
am laughing,” he said, “not from lightness of mind, but from the depth of
surprise and of joy that you should so think of me. It was a dream which
once I had; but impossible! you do not think that I, weak I, shall ever be
able to do more than save my own soul?”
“You will save your own soul by saving the souls of others,” said
Cæcilius; “my child, I could tell you more things if I thought it good for
you.”
“But, my father, I have so weak, so soft a heart,” cried Agellius; “what
am I to do with myself? I am not of the temper of which heroes are made.”
“ ‘Virtus in infirmitate perficitur,’ ” said the priest. “What! are you to
do _any_ thing of yourself? or are you to be simply the instrument of
Another? We shall have the same termination, you and myself, but you long
after me.”
“Ah, father, because _you_ will burn out so much more quickly!” said
Agellius.
“I think,” said Cæcilius, “I see my messenger; there is some one who has
made his way by stealth into the garden, or at least not by the beaten
way.”
There _was_ a visitor, as Cæcilius had said; however, it was not his
messenger, but Juba, who approached, looking with great curiosity at
Cæcilius, and absorbed in the sight. Cæcilius in turn regarded him
steadfastly, and then said to Agellius, “It is your brother.”
“What brings you here, Juba?” said the latter.
“I have been away on a distant errand,” said Juba; “and find you have been
ill. Is this your nurse?” he eyed him almost sternly, and added, “’Tis a
Christian priest.”
“Has Agellius no acquaintance but Christians?” asked Cæcilius.
“Acquaintance! O surely!” answered Juba; “agreeable, innocent, sweet
acquaintance of another sort; myself to begin with. My lad,” he continued,
“you did not rise to their price, but you did your best.”
“Juba,” said his brother, “if you have any business here, say it, and have
done. I am not strong enough to hold any altercation with you.”
“Business!” said Juba, “I can find quite business enough here, if I
choose. This is a priest of the Christians. I am sure of it.”
Cæcilius looked at him with such calmness and benevolence, that at length
Juba turned away his eyes with something of irritation. He said, “If I
_am_ a priest, I am here to claim you as one of my children.”
Juba winced, but said scornfully, “You are mistaken there, father; speak
to those who own you. I am a free man.”
“My son,” Cæcilius answered, “you have been under instruction; it is your
duty to go forward, not back.”
“What do you know about me?” said Juba; “he has been telling.”
“Your face, your manner, your voice, tells a tale; I need no information
from others. I have heard of you years ago; now I see you.”
“What do you see in me?” said Juba.
“I see pride in bodily shape, treading down faith and conviction,” said
Cæcilius.
Juba neighed rather than laughed, so fierce and scornful was its
expression. “What you slaves call pride,” he said, “I call dignity.”
“You believe in a God, Creator of heaven and earth, as certainly as I do,”
said the priest, “but you deliberately set yourself against Him.”
Juba smiled. “I am as free,” he said, “in _my_ place, as He in His.”
“You mean,” answered Cæcilius, “free to do wrong, and free to suffer for
it.”
“You may call it wrong, and call it suffering,” replied Juba; “but for me,
_I_ do not call wrong what He calls wrong; and if He puts me to pain, it
is because He is the stronger.”
The priest stopped awhile; there was no emotion on either side. It was
strange to see them so passionless, so antagonistic, like St. Michael and
his adversary.
“There is that within you,” said Cæcilius, “which speaks as I speak. That
inward voice takes the part of the Creator, and condemns you.”
“_He_ put it there,” said Juba; “and _I_ will take care to put it out.”
“Then He will have justice as well as power on His side,” said the priest.
“I will never fawn or crouch,” said Juba; “I will be lord and master in my
own soul. Every faculty shall be mine; there shall be no divided
allegiance.”
Cæcilius paused again; he said at length, “My son, my soul tells me, or
rather my Maker tells me, and your Maker, that some heavy judgment is
impending over you. Do penance while you may.”
“Tell your forebodings to women and children,” said Juba; “I am prepared
for anything. I will not be crushed.”
Agellius was not strong enough to bear a part in such a scene. “Father,”
he said, “it is his way, but don’t believe him. He has better thoughts.
Away with you, Juba, you are not wanted here.”
“Agellius,” said the priest, “such words are not strange to me. I am not
young, and have seen much of the world; and my very office and position
elicits blasphemies from others from time to time. I knew a man who
carried out his bad thoughts and words into act. Abjuring his Maker, he
abandoned himself to the service of the evil one. He betrayed his brethren
to death. He lived on year after year, and became old. He was smitten with
illness; then I first saw him. I made him contemplate a picture; it was
the picture of the Good Shepherd. I dwelt on the vain efforts of the poor
sheep to get out of the fold; its irrational aversion to its home, and its
desperate resolution to force a way through the prickly fence. It was
pierced and torn with the sharp aloe; at last it lay imprisoned in its
stern embrace, motionless and bleeding. Then the Shepherd, though He had
to wound His own hands in the work, disengaged it, and brought it back.
God has His own times; His power went along with the picture, and the man
was moved. I said, ‘_This_ is His return for your enmity: He is determined
to have you, cost Him what it will.’ I need not go through the many things
that followed, but the issue may be told in few words. He came back; he
lived a life of penance at the Church’s door; he received the peace of the
Church in immediate prospect of the persecution, and has within the last
ten days died a martyr’s death.”
Juba had listened as if he was constrained against his will. When the
priest stopped he started, and began to speak impetuously, and unlike his
ordinary tone. He placed his hands violently against his ears. “Stop!” he
said, “no more. _I_ will not betray them; no: I _need_ not betray them;”
he laughed; “the black moor does the work himself. Look,” he cried,
seizing the priest’s arm, and pointing to a part of the forest, which
happened to be to windward. “You are in their number, priest, who can
foretell the destinies of others, and are blind to their own. Read there,
the task is not hard, your coming fortunes.”
His finger was directed to a spot where, amid the thick foliage, the gleam
of a pool or of a marsh was visible. The various waters round about
issuing from the gravel, or drained from the nightly damps, had run into a
hollow, filled with the decaying vegetation of former years, and were
languidly filtered out into a brook, more healthy than the vast reservoir
itself. Its banks were bordered with a deep, broad layer of mud, a
transition substance between the rich vegetable matter which it once had
been, and the multitudinous world of insect life which it was becoming. A
cloud or mist at this time was hanging over it, high in air. A harsh and
shrill sound, a whizzing or a chirping, proceeded from that cloud to the
ear of the attentive listener. What these indications portended was plain.
“There,” said Juba, “is what will tell more against you than imperial
edict, informer, or proconsular apparitor; and no work of mine.”
He turned down the bank and disappeared. Agellius and his guest looked at
each other in dismay. “It is the locusts,” they whispered to each other,
as they went back into the cottage.