LA BELLE GABRIELLE.
"All hearts do pray, God love her!
Ay, and always, in good sooth,
We may all be sure he doth."
THE summer sunshine, which was lighting up with renewed beauty the
woods in the neighbourhood of the Grove, and painting in exquisite
colours, as with the finger of God, the flowers in many gardens,
fell only feebly in some of the narrow dingy streets in the great
over-crowded cities.
A few rays only had found entrance into one house in a narrow street in
the town of Birmingham; but those rays were joyously welcomed by the
inmates of the dwelling.
"See, maman," said a bright-looking young girl about the same age as
Priscilla Warner, "said I not ere long the sun would be round here to
cheer us up? Only see!" And as she spoke, she drew up the blind.
The lady whom the girl addressed as mother looked up with a smile from
the couch on which she was reclining.
"'Tis well, Gabrielle," she said, in a sweet tone, though with a
foreign accent, "that thou canst look out for sunshine and make the
most of it when it shines, only too seldom in this triste contrée.
And truly everything looks dark just now—my long illness, the boys'
education, the expense of having to keep a nurse for the babe, and, now
that the long holidays have begun, your father having so few pupils;
and then, though we have not too much sunshine, yet the air feels
sultry and the house close, and—"
"Fi donc, maman," said the girl with a silvery laugh. "What a list of
woes you have given, the poor maman! But see! Hast thou not taught thy
little Gabrielle to look at the mercies as well as at the trials of
life? Now, then!"
And seating herself on a low stool near the couch, and taking the baby
(which lay beside its mother) on her lap, she began playfully—
"True, thou art ill, and that is the worst of all the troubles; but
the doctor says you are getting better. Then is it not good that the
petits garcons are so well that they can be at school? And has not the
nurse been a comfort to thee as well as an expense? And I do believe
her coming saved the life of ma petite sœur, my little Jean—my Scotch
lassie, as le père calls her, while I am his French one, his Gabrielle."
"And see, again, as to pupils. Well, 'tis a pity about that; but then
papa is so clever, and paints so charmingly, that I am sure some day
he will get a good appointment. And then, mother, we know le bon Dieu
lives and cares for us. How often you have told us so! And only this
morning, before he went out, papa said, 'We must trust the Lord—'"
"'He never yet forsook at need
The soul that trusted him indeed.'"
"God bless my little sunbeam," said Mrs. M'Ivor, as she drew her
daughter into her arms, and in her native tongue (for by birth she was
a French woman) called her many loving names.
Gabrielle M'Ivor, whose life was to exert an influence over more than
one of the characters in our story, was indeed a lovable girl and fair
to look at.
As yet small in stature, with the neatest of figures always set off
to advantage by a dress of a perfect fit, simple and inexpensive, yet
with an air of elegance about it that many of her companions in far
more costly array strove to copy in vain. Her face, if not perfect in
feature, was yet wonderfully bewitching, with its sparkling black eyes,
so thoroughly French, and the wealth of hair, that glory of girlhood,
so prettily arranged and contrasting so strikingly with the black eyes.
For it was really golden, inherited from her Scotch father, though his
undoubtedly inclined to the unromantic shade named red.
But Gabrielle's charms were more than "skin deep." She had the
promise of being a noble woman—self-forgetful and loving. With all
the brightness and light-heartedness of a French woman, she possessed
a good portion of Scotch solidity and firmness, and above all a real
trust in and love to God and her Saviour Jesus Christ. She also (though
in a different way), like Priscilla Warner, felt she had a work, and
a great one, given her to do on earth, and like Priscilla, she was
ambitious to do it.
The M'Ivors, at the time we write of, had been for five years settled
in the town of Birmingham, where Mr. M'Ivor was a teacher of drawing.
But although he had a good number of pupils, yet his wife's long
illness, and the needs of a family of seven children, of whom Gabrielle
was the oldest except one, made it hard work to keep the wolf from the
door.
André, the oldest, was a clever, plodding lad of some sixteen years,
steady, and very considerate of his parents as well as of his sister
Gabrielle, to whom he was fondly attached. Despite his Scotch origin,
his appearance was thoroughly French, though his mother laughingly
told him in character he was altogether a canny Scotchman, quiet and
firm. The younger boys—Jules, Philippe, and James—were bright, healthy
children, quick and affectionate, giving their mother and Gabrielle no
end of work in patching clothes and darning stockings for them.
Such is a slight sketch of the family into whose small dwelling the
summer sunbeams peeped on the morning we are writing of.
Mother and daughter had remained silent for a short time, when the
door opened, and a tall, fair-haired gentleman entered with a bright
expression on his clever, sensible face.
The invalid looked up with a happy smile.
"Ah, Jacques," she said, "how soon you have returned! That is pleasant."
But Gabrielle, with the keen eye of youth, had seen something in her
father's face that she read quickly, and springing up with the baby
still in her arms, said—
"O papa, thou hast heard good news, I am sure. Has the appointment we
have hoped for so long come at last? Oh! I see it has by the look in
your eyes. Tell us what it is, dear papa; tell us quickly, please."
Ere answering, Mr. M'Ivor seated himself by the couch, and taking his
wife's hand, he said quietly—
"The Lord is good, Marie. We have reason to thank him. I have just
received a letter from an old and revered friend of mine, Professor
Warner of Hereford, offering me the situation of drawing-master in
a large collegiate school there, with the option of giving private
lessons to any other pupils. There is, he writes, a good house and
garden provided, and the yearly salary is good also. What do you say?
Shall we accept it? Come here also, my little Gabrielle, and tell us
what you think about the matter."
"O papa, is it not too charming?" said the impetuous girl, putting the
baby on her father's knee, and stooping as she spoke over her mother's
couch. "Only to think of it! A house and garden, and money enough to
keep that horrid wolf, that even I was beginning to fear, from our
door. And now we shall be able to get nourishing food and fresh air for
the pauvre maman, and she will get well again; and André, our dear,
good André, will get some good opening as a teacher also, I daresay.
Oh! We have reason to thank God, who has been so mindful of us. Mamma,
speak; say, is it not delightful?"
"Indeed it is, my precious sunbeam; and I feel it a loving rebuke to
me for my want of faith and trust in Him who has never forsaken us. Of
course, Jacques, you will accept the offer, and thank Dr. Warner warmly
for his kind remembrance of you."
"No fear of my not doing that, Marie. But are not our first thanks due
to Him who put it into Dr. Warner's heart to do this kindness?"
And so saying the father bent his head, and, with Gabrielle kneeling
beside him and his wife's thin hand still clasped in his, gave thanks
to their heavenly Father, who had remembered them in their time of
need, and brought them into a "large place," for Christ Jesus' sake.
Whilst they were thus engaged, the door opened, and a fine-looking
young lad entered, and stood, cap in hand, with bent head and reverent
look, till the prayer, or rather the thanksgiving, was ended.
Then he came quietly forward, and touching his sister lightly on the
shoulder, said, "Gabrielle, what has happened?"
The father and mother could not refrain from smiling at the vehemence
of Gabrielle's reply, as she told the news to her favourite brother,
whose brow lightened and eyes sparkled with pleasure as he listened.
Then going forward to his parents, he said, "This is good news indeed.
I am so thankful. Now, please God, I shall be able to do something to
help you all."
"Indeed, André, you have done that for some time," said his mother,
looking with pride and fondness at her first-born son.
And even Mr. M'Ivor, who was not given to lavishing praise too freely,
echoed her words, and laying his hand on his boy's shoulder, said—
"God has been good to us in all our children; has he not, Marie?"
André M'Ivor was, in truth, a son whom any parents might have been
thankful to possess—thoughtful and firm, clever and steady, actuated
by the love of God, and desirous of living to his glory; yet even
on religious subjects reserved and reticent, seldom expressing his
feelings except to his sister Gabrielle, but by his earnest Christian
life bearing a noble testimony to his Master. He, too, realized that
God had given to every man his work, and expected him to do it. And
he also sought to do what in him lay to hasten on the coming of God's
kingdom.
And thus it happened that when the summer holidays were over, and the
October sun shone on stubble fields and played on the heads of groups
of young and old engaged in many an orchard gathering the rosy-checked
apples to store up for winter use, and schools were reopened and
studies resumed, the M'Ivors found themselves comfortably settled in a
pretty suburban cottage in the town of Hereford, ready to begin with
grateful hearts the work which God had given them to do.