“Amidst this earthly stir and strife,
Glows down our wished ideal;
For wishing molds in clay, what life
Canes in the marble real.”
LOWELL.
RENÉ insisted on returning home the next day, much to the regret of Meniet, who pressed him to remain with them for at least a week. Annette joined her persuasions to those of her husband, until René, who would very gladly have yielded, were it possible, pleaded the anxiety his prolonged absence would cause his sister―a plea her heart accepted at once. The children clung to him as if he were an old friend. He embraced little Claude, and seemed disposed to take an equally affectionate leave of Madeleine, but modestly contented himself with kissing her hand. His air of grave and tender reverence provoked Meniet to ask him, with a laugh, where he had learned the manners of the Court. René joined in the laugh, but said, gravely enough, to Annette, “Mademoiselle is so like M. le Pasteur, that I feel as if I were saluting him.” They supplied him bountifully with provisions for the way, warmly urging him to come again, and bring his sister with him. He promised, willingly.
It was late when he reached Trou. He slept in the village, at the house of M. Brissac; and in the morning escorted his sister, who had remained there during his absence, to their cottage.
René and Jeannette seemed for the time to have changed characters, or rather to have returned to what had been habitual to each before their great sorrow made the merry hearted boy grave and silent, and moved the quiet girl to unusual efforts to amuse and cheer him. René told of his reception at Mazel, and described and eulogized each member of the family; dwelling especially upon their love to the pastor, and growing eloquent as he spoke of his self-denying labors and hazardous exploits.
Jeannette’s answers were few and brief; she seemed preoccupied; though René was slow in perceiving it, and continued to talk, for his own enjoyment if not for hers, until they reached their solitary dwelling. He was, however, arrested by her manner when they entered it. Instead of beginning at once to fulfill the duties of an active and notable housekeeper, she sat down and idly folded her hands, without even removing the warm shawl in which she had wrapped herself.
“Is anything the matter?” René asked.
“Well―no. Did you notice, René, how busy the Brissacs seemed this morning?”
“They are always busy. Though, now you remind me, I saw the girls had more needlework than usual. Did they wish you to stay and help them?”
“Not today; another time. René, Jacques is going away.”
“Oh! Is he? And whither?”
“To Vernoux, to perfect himself as a carpenter.”
“I think he is perfect already. Your spinning wheel is mended to perfection; that chest he made for you could not be improved; and the little table for your work, with the drawer in it, is really beautiful.”
“Yet he was never taught. All he knows he learned by himself, watching old Vidal at his work. But Madame Brissac has a brother in Vernoux, a carpenter, and a very good workman. So Jacques is to go to him, and learn the finer parts of his craft; that when he returns he may have a shop of his own, and work for all the neighborhood.”
“What a good plan! How long does he intend to stay in Vernoux?”
“Oh, he cannot tell yet. Perhaps six months, perhaps a year. A year is a long time.”
At sixteen this seems a truism; and René acquiesced. Jeannette resumed: “He is to be called M. Lorin’s partner, because of the Edict.”
She alluded to an Edict which forbade Protestants to receive members of their own communion as servants or apprentices. It was one of many which hampered every movement of their social and domestic Life; and which, together, formed a confused mass of legislation, without method or consistency, but intense and ingenious in cruelty.
Jeannette was not, however, thinking of the Edicts. She continued, with some hesitation and embarrassment, “Brother, Jacques spoke to me last night.”
“About what?” René inquired, innocently.
“How stupid you are! Boys never understand anything,” Jeannette exclaimed, with an air of irritation very unusual to her.
René looked up, surprised. But Jeannette’s face, which was grave and full of emotion, showed him that something important had happened: and he said, much more earnestly, “What is it, my sister?”
“Only this,” Jeannette answered, playing with the keys in her hand; “Jacques hopes some day to call you―brother.”
“Oh, Jeannette!” he exclaimed, reproachfully. “He might have waited a little longer ere he spoke; and you, ere you listened!” The hasty words had passed his lips before he knew what he was saying.
Jeannette hid her face; all was not hope and joy in the heart of the orphan girl. She needed the word of counsel and approval, the loving caress, that there was none now to give except her only brother; and he was silent, occupied with self. Jacques was taking from him his one treasure. It was cruel! It was the rich man, with flocks and herds, taking the poor man’s ewe lamb, which ate of his own bread, and drank of his own cup.
“And you are but a child still!” he continued, following his own thought.
“True,” said Jeannette. “I am very young. And it is soon―” Her voice faltered―sank. René saw that she was weeping, and, coming to her side, laid his hand gently on her shoulder. For some moments neither spoke; but at last she gathered strength to say, “He is going away for such a long time; and he is such a good lad, René.”
“Yes,” said René, kindly enough, though still rather grudgingly. “He is a good lad. And―perhaps―he will stay a whole year at Vernoux.”
A perfectly unselfish brother would have rejoiced that his sister had found a lover so true, a protector so brave, as Jacques Brissac. It was hard for René to do this. In the sad days that followed his father’s death his only stay and strength had been to think that Jeannette depended on him for comfort, for protection, even for daily bread. But now a better man than he―one much more respected in their little community―had undertaken the charge, and it would be his no longer. He might do with himself what he pleased. He was no more any one’s first concern, nor need any one be his.
His mood was not sorrowful only, but wayward and sullen. Perhaps a lingering jealousy of the steady, industrious Jacques, who had been so often quoted to him as all that an elder’s son ought to be, unconsciously sharpened his pain.
To none, save One, did he unveil the thoughts that filled his heart that day. He struggled, but not alone; for he knew now that he had a Father in heaven; he had received the kiss of reconciliation, the assurance of his love. Through that love he overcame. The mists of jealous anger and of selfish pain melted away in its sunshine; and there was peace.
He was late in returning home that evening. Jeannette had prepared supper, and was watching for him with an anxious heart, when he came in flushed and breathless.
“Am I late?” he asked. “After I put the sheep in for the night, I ran down to the village to shake hands with Jacques, and wish him joy. I told him,” he added, in a lower voice, “that he was getting the best girl in the parish.”
Jeannette looked up brightly. “I shall tell him who has the best brother,” she whispered, with a warm embrace.
From that moment they understood each other, and were one in heart, though few words passed between them.
Many little circumstances might have prepared René for Jeannette’s announcement, had he been observant enough to notice them. She was in her sixteenth year, and Cévennol maidens were often wooed and won even at an earlier age. The Cévennol, precocious in everything, loved early, for his tenure of life and its blessings was often brief―always uncertain. His susceptibilities were keen, his family affections strong, and his attachments partook of the intensity and solemn fervor of his religious faith.
René spent the next few weeks in silent, diligent toil. Whenever he had a leisure hour he sought his father’s grave; sometimes to weep, always to pray. Not there alone, but as he tended the sheep, as he went about the necessary labors of the field and house, as he lay at night on his pallet of dried grass, the cry arose from his heart, “Lord, what wilt Thou have me to do.”
Gradually a purpose formed within him. It struck its roots, as strong things usually do, in darkness and silence. But a time drew near when it must be told. It would cost him much to tell it; more, perhaps, than it had cost Jeannette to reveal the secret of her first love.
Rather more than a month after René’s visit to Mazel, the brother and sister sat together one evening. Jeannette was spinning, and René carding wool for her, by the light of a little lamp fed with oil from nuts gathered and pressed by themselves. Suddenly René looked up, and said, “Jeannette, I think I shall go with Jacques, on Wednesday, to Vernoux.”
“In the snow?” Jeannette questioned.
“I run no greater risk of being buried in a snowdrift than Jacques,” René answered, laughing, “and I should not be so much missed if I were. M. Brissac tells me a great fair is to be held in Vernoux on Friday and Saturday, and advises me to sell a couple of sheep there. The money will be very useful to us just now. You will need some things. Tell me what you want, and I will do my best. I dare say Madame Lorin will help me.”
“How thoughtful you have grown, René. Yes, there are a few things we ought to buy.” She began the enumeration of their simple wants, taking care to include René’s as well as her own, for she feared his lavishing all his slender resources upon her. “But you are not listening,” she said at last, noticing his abstracted air.
“I am thinking,” René answered, “that I should like to go on from Vernoux to Mazel, and visit the Meniets.”
“With all my heart, brother. You have earned a holiday, and I will stay with the Brissacs, or Aimée Brissac can come here.”
“Jeannette, Jacques says he does not intend to stay more than six months at Vernoux. And then―”
“Ah, brother,” Jeannette interposed, “you need not think of that, as yet. All is so uncertain. Jacques and I have laid our hands in each other’s, and promised solemnly before God that, come what may, we will never go to the curé; and God only knows when we can get the pastor, or what there may be to suffer for it afterward.”
“Do not let that trouble thee, sister. M. Brissac is very? skillful; he knows how to manage. Have not three of his sons and one of his daughters been married in the desert? And I never heard that there was even a fine to be paid.”
“True; but we had quiet days then. Since last year things are changed, and the faithful are harassed and persecuted everywhere. We hear of nothing but fines and imprisonments; men sent to the galleys, and assemblies dispersed by the sword. Jacques says M. Brissac thinks these are the last times, foretold in the Scriptures, and that the end of all things is at hand.”
Prudently waiving this question, René said, with a little hesitation, “It is not altogether for my pleasure that I am going to Mazel.”
“You have not, surely, found another errand thither?” Jeannette asked in some surprise. “But I am very glad you are going.”
This was spoken heartily; for she knew that, since his visit to Mazel, her brother’s face had not worn the look of hopeless, uncomforted sorrow that used to wring her heart.
René laid down the wool he was carding, and put a log on the fine, then rose and stood before it, with his face turned away from his sister.
“I must see M. Majal again,” he said.
“Shall you find him at Mazel?”
“I shall learn where to find him. I want his counsel and his help.”
“Why not rather seek that of our good pastor, M. ROUX? He was our father’s friend, René. You know he held us both in his arms as infants; and, when we grew older, he taught and catechized us.”
“Jeannette, there is no use in reminding me of all that,” René interrupted with decision. “I could never speak to M. Roux―nor to M. Brissac.” Then, after a pause, and more gently, “Sister, do you remember a day, very long ago, when our mother showed us her father’s sword?”
“Indeed, I do. You took it from her, and must needs carry it about. She had much ado to get it out of your hands.”
“She told me there was a better sword than that: one which my father’s father had wielded bravely; and she hoped I would do the same one day.”
“She meant the sword of the Spirit―the Word of God,” Jeannette said.
“Strange as it may seem, my father had the same thought,” René went on with increasing earnestness. “At the Synod he said to M. Majal―or, at least, in his hearing―that it was the dearest wish of his heart that his one son should be―a minister of the gospel.”
Jeannette pushed her wheel aside, and gazed at her brother with a look of dismay.
“Dear brother!” she faltered. “Take care, I implore of you, take care. You may deceive yourself.”
Those of a man’s own household are often the last to recognize his call to an arduous and honorable work, especially if it be one which involves certain danger―probable death.
“Count the cost,” Jeannette remonstrated, with trembling lips and tearful eyes. “Think whether you are able for so great a work. It seems to me―forgive me, brother―almost presumptuous.”
“Well, perhaps it is. God only knows,” René said humbly.
“You have never studied,” Jeannette resumed. “You do not love study. Do you think, then, that Messieurs les Pasteur’s would give you the ‘letters of recommendation,’ without which you could not he received as a student at the Academy in Lausanne?”
“I am sure they would not,” René answered. “Nor have I any intention of asking them.”
“Then what do you mean to do?” asked the wondering Jeannette.
“Go to him who brought me that message from the lips of the dead―entreat him to let me follow him, work for him, serve him like a son; and, at the same time, learn of him as he learns of Christ.”
“René, brother; may I speak my whole mind to thee?”
“Certainly.”
“Then I hope M. Majal―who, to judge by all you have told me, seems very wise and very kind―will bid you wait, and take counsel at the lips of your old and tried friends.”
This was reasonable; but reason was not what René wanted just then. He was not able to explain himself, yet he felt instinctively that Majal would understand him.
“I know he will receive me,” he said, with confidence. “Nor would you doubt it, if you had seen him and heard his words.”
“Then give me one promise, René—that you will abide by his decision, whatever it may be?” said Jeannette, thinking she saw a gleam of hope.
“I give it freely,” René answered. “I am ready to obey him in all things. What he commands I will do.” A vow of obedience, taken voluntarily and with joyful earnestness, to the hero his heart had chosen.
“I cannot forget,” Jeannette resumed, sadly, “that young Morel was sent to the galleys for Life, because he followed his uncle, the minister, as you propose to follow M. Majal.”
René’s dark eyes kindled. “Do you think so poorly of me,” he said, “as to suppose me afraid of the galleys?”
“I think very highly of your courage, dear brother,” Jeannette said, affectionately. “But something more is needed. A man ought to know the good God very well himself before he undertakes to speak―I say not, to suffer―for Him.”
“That is true,” René answered gently. “But I am trying to learn.”
Both were silent for a time. René, having said all that he thought necessary about his cherished project, shrank from further discussion, and to turn the conversation, presently inquired, “What were you telling me at supper, about the Vériens?”
“They have left the village, and their house is to be sold. Jacques was thinking of taking it; the position is so good for a carpenter’s shop. But Monsieur and Madame Brissac wish him―wish us―to live with them.”
“That I know; for I have been talking with Jacques, and asking him to make this his borne, and yours.”
“How like you, brother!” said Jeannette, with emotion. “Always kind and generous. But Jacques would not consent to such a plan, nor I. It would be unfair to you.”
“Not at all! What good will the house be to me? But of course you must do as the Brissacs wish. And now tell me of the Vériens: there seems some mystery.”
“A sad one. Jacques suspected, a month ago, what every one knows now, that it was Guillaume Vérien who acted the traitor’s part the night that made us orphans. His parents will never lift their heads again. Even the Catholics point the finger of scorn at them.”
“Base coward!” René exclaimed. “I could never endure his sly, quiet ways, and his soft step, and keen eyes, always watching everything. He will get the wages of Judas the betrayer, and well has he earned them.” He was silent for a minute, then added, more gently, “Let us leave him to God. May He forgive him! But how has the matter come to light?”
“Jacques told me that Cordonnier, of Neyrac, who was taken that night, has been released on payment of a fine, through the good offices of his cousin, the consul. He brought tidings that Guillaume is neither in prison nor at the galleys; but studying the law at Toulouse, with all his expenses paid.”
“Too true, then,” said René, sorrowfully. “‘Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.’”
“A good warning that, for all of us,” said Jeannette.
“Very,” René acquiesced. “But it is also said of someone―is it not?― ‘Yea, and he shall be holden up, for God is able to make him stand.’”