"THE CLEAR CALL."
THERESE had not come to her conclusion without a good deal of
hesitation and not a few tears. It was not in nature willingly to give
up such a brilliant prospect as that which Mrs. Tremaine's plan had
opened to her without a severe struggle.
The matter was as she had told Marion. Mrs. Tremaine had most
unexpectedly inherited from an old relative of her late husband an
estate in one of the small towns near Paris, with a considerable sum
of money, on the condition that she should make the old house her home
for two or three years. She was not fond of Paris. She had once resided
there for several years, and her remembrances of the time were far from
agreeable, but she felt that it was hardly right to refuse such an
accession to the small property which Kitty would have to depend upon
in case of her death. The arrangement would give Kitty the advantage of
excellent teachers for the ornamental parts of her education—advantages
which she could hardly attain while living in Holford, and which Mrs.
Tremaine was far from despising, and it would give her an opportunity
of benefiting Therese, in whom she was much interested. So after much
consideration she decided to close her house in Holford and go abroad.
Of course the girls were delighted. Kitty was very fond of Therese, and
enjoyed the prospect of having her as a companion in her studies and
amusements. Therese was happy in the thought of being able to prepare
herself for a first-rate teacher, and she and Kitty held many long
talks on the subject, Kitty recalling for Therese's benefit all her
juvenile recollections of Paris. Kitty had been too young to share in
her mother's anxieties and perplexities, and her remembrances were of
unmixed pleasure: of walks under the trees in the Champs Elysées, of
beautiful shops and delicious bonbons. It was no wonder that she was
pleased at the thought of returning to such a Paradise.
Grandfather Beaubien at once gave his consent to the arrangement. He
had unlimited confidence in Mrs. Tremaine, and he thought Therese would
be better off in a new place where nobody would know or cast up to
her the faults and disgrace of her father and mother. The old man was
far above that mean jealousy which makes some parents in such cases
resent any improvement in the circumstances of a child as an injury to
themselves.
"Go, go, my good child," he had said to Therese. "Thou hast been a
dutiful daughter, and no doubt the blessing will go with thee. Madame
is an angel of goodness and rectitude. She will care for thee, she will
educate thee. Thou wilt reflect honour on her and on thy own family.
For me, I have dutiful children to care for me in my age and enough for
all my simple wants. Be a good child, be obedient to Madame, forget
not to pray for thy grandfather and thy unfortunate parents, and the
blessing of the good God go with thee. If thou shouldst go to Normandy,
try to seek out the graves of thy kindred and lay some flowers thereon
for me."
As Therese was going toward Madame Duval's neat little house, she met
Doctor Gates in his carriage, who drew up to the side of the road to
speak to her.
"Are you going to your grandmother's, Therese? I have just been to see
her."
"To see grandmother! I did not know she was sick," said Therese in
alarm. "Did she send for you?"
"Not she indeed," answered the doctor, smiling. "Madeline Lenoir told
me she was not well, and I stopped at her house. I think there is a
great change in her, Therese. Cannot you persuade her to have somebody
with her? She is not fit to live alone any more."
"I have felt unhappy about her being alone for some time," answered
Therese; "but she is not willing to take any stranger into her house."
"That is very natural," replied Doctor Gates; "but it does not alter
the facts of the case; she is no longer capable of taking care of
herself and her house as she has done, of making her own fire and
cooking her own meals. Madeline says she goes in as often as she can,
but of course she has her own family to attend to. Turn it over in your
mind, Therese, and see what can be done about it. Good-bye."
The doctor touched up his horse, and Therese went on her way. She
found her grandmother sitting up as usual by the window, her dress
in the best order, her knitting in her hands, and her great French
Bible, an heirloom of many generations, open on the table at her elbow.
Everything in the room was in its customary order, and shining with
neatness, from the well-polished stove to the tortoise-shell cat and
her two white kittens; but Therese was startled with the change in the
old lady herself.
"Have you been ill, grand-mère?" asked Therese.
"No, my child, not ill. I have not been well for some days past; I have
had a shock, and it is not in nature that an old woman like me should
not feel it. I am eighty years old this month."
"I did not think you were as old as that."
"Yes, your poor mother was my youngest child, the last survivor of six
hopeful children who all died in childhood; and but for thee, Therese,
I could find it in my heart to regret that she had not slept with them."
This was the first time grand-mère had mentioned her mother to Therese.
"But thou art a good child, Therese, and I am glad thou hast such kind
friends; thou canst say,—
"'When my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will take me up.'
"Tell me about thy prospects."
Therese repeated what we have heard of Mrs. Tremaine's plans,
concluding with—"And when I come back, grand-mère, I shall be able to
have a school of my own like Miss Oliver's, and make a home for thee,
and perhaps for poor mamma also, if she should return."
The old lady smiled, but shook her head. "May thy dreams be fulfilled,
child, but I shall never see them. I shall be in a fairer home than
thine long before that time. I could have wished to have thee beside me
to close my eyes, but it is to be otherwise, and I shall not be left
alone. There, do not weep, my Therese, but listen while I tell thee
the disposition of my affairs, that thou mayst remember them. I have
made my will according to the law of the land, and it is in good Mr.
McGregor's hands. Thou wilt inherit this house and all that I have; it
is not much.
"But, Therese, keep carefully the clock and the old bureau and carved
chest; they came from France with my father when he fled for his life
in the persecuting times, when France, like Jerusalem, killed her
prophets, and stoned them that were sent unto her. * And this Bible,"
said she, turning over the leaves and showing Therese a dark stain
she had often seen before—"see, it is wet with the blood of the martyr,
thy great-grandfather. He was shot down at a preaching. The people were
collected in a close, narrow valley, at a communion; they were surprised
by the troops, who fired volley after volley among them. My grandfather
was shot down and died on the spot; my uncle and father escaped to carry
the news and this book to their mother. They found that the enemy had been
there during their absence. They left her half dead, and carried away her
only girl, a child of ten years old. She never saw the child again."
* We are apt to think of Romanist persecution as entirely a thing of
the past. At the very time when Lafayette was fighting our battles,
there were multitudes of pastors and gentlemen in the galleys of
Marseilles and Toulon for no other offence than that of being
Protestants.
"What became of her?" anxiously inquired Therese.
"Nobody knows. She was doubtless taken to some convent where she
was brought up to deny the faith of her fathers; perhaps to die for
the truth, as younger children have done before now. The poor woman
herself soon after died. Her sons, after long lurking in dens and
caves of the earth, at last escaped, and came to Canada, where they
had relations and friends and found peace and safety. They preserved
this book through all, and thou must preserve it too. And, Therese, if
thou art ever tempted to desert the faith, remember the line of which
thou art sprung. Look unto the rock from which thou art hewn, and the
hole of the pit from whence thou art digged. Thou art come of a race of
martyrs, men and women, aye, and children, who thought of and cared for
nothing in comparison of the truth and their duty. Be not thou unworthy
of them. Count not thy life nor any part of it dear unto thyself if God
calls thee to lay it down."
This was a long speech for Grand-mère Duval, who was usually a woman of
few words.
Therese listened with silent and respectful interest. She had often
tried to set her grandmother talking of these matters, but hitherto
without much success. Now she ventured to ask a question which she had
not dared to broach:
"Grand-mère, maman gave me a picture. She said you would tell me the
story about it."
She drew from her pocket as she spoke the miniature which her mother
had given her.
Grand-mère took it and looked at it long and earnestly.
"Thou art her namesake, Therese. She was thy great-grandmother—the one
of whom I have been telling thee. She came of a noble French family who
cast her off because she embraced the Reformed faith. They would have
shut her up, but she escaped to the good pastor Rabant, who gave her
shelter, and there thy great-grandfather found and married her."
"I have seen somebody very much like her, but I cannot think who," said
Therese, studying the picture intently.
Grandma Duval smiled. "Look in the glass, my child. Thou art the very
picture of that poor afflicted one. Mayst thou have her faith and
steadfastness to lay down all at the call of duty! But art thou not
staying too long, my child?"
"Mrs. Tremaine said I might stay as long as you liked to have me," said
Therese. "Let me get your supper for you."
"Gladly, so thou wilt share it with me. It is a pleasure to see thee
going about. If I had a little house-fairy like thee, I might consent
to follow the good doctor's advice and have somebody to stay with me."
"It troubles me to think of your being alone," said Therese, glad to
have her grandmother touch on the delicate subject of her own accord.
"Is there nobody—Joujou Lenoir, now—"
Grand-mère Duval made a face of disgust. "Bah! She is a break-all, a
what say you? A slattern, a gad-about. She would drive me mad. I cannot
bear the thought of a stranger about me. No, no, child, that can never
be."
Therese understood her grandmother well enough to know that there
was no use in saying any more. She got the supper ready, milked the
little cow, which was one of the old lady's chief sources of revenue,
and skimmed the cream, while Madame Duval produced her finest dish of
preserved strawberries and her favourite cream-cheese to grace the meal.
"I shall leave thee the receipt for this cheese for part of thy
inheritance," said she, with gentle pride; "nobody here knows how to
make it rightly."
When the time came for Therese to go, the old lady held her long in a
close embrace. It was evident that her heart clung to the child of her
poor perverse daughter.
"Thou art my only relative, alas! Save one, living in this country, and
it is hard to let thee go," said she; "we shall never meet again in
this world, but I shall see thee in heaven."
It was with a heavy heart and a sad face that Therese at last took
her leave. She walked slowly homeward, and was very silent all the
evening. Before she went to bed, she spent a long time in prayer and
in searching her Bible; and when she was at last about to put out her
light, she took out the picture of her ancestress and looked at it.
"She counted not her life dear to herself," she murmured; "she laid
down all, far more than life, for his sake. Oh, what shall I do? What
ought I to do? Oh, make thy way plain before my face, and teach me how
to walk therein."
For a day or two, Therese continued silent and preoccupied, and Mrs.
Tremaine saw that she had something on her mind. At last she preferred
a petition:
"Please, Mrs. Tremaine, may I go out this afternoon? I want to walk up
to mother's old house."
Mrs. Tremaine hesitated.
"I will not be gone long," said Therese.
"It is not that," said Mrs. Tremaine, and then added, smiling: "The
truth is, Therese, I believe I have a kind of terror of the place."
"I don't think there is any danger," said Therese.
"No, I presume not, and it is natural you should wish to see it again.
Yes, you may go, but do not be away very long, or, reasonable or not, I
shall be uneasy about you."
Therese promised, and set out on her walk. She had a difficulty to face
and question to decide, and she had a feeling that she could settle
it better in that place than anywhere else. She walked quickly till
she turned into the mountain-road, and then more deliberately till she
came to the little farm. It was a lonely place always, and somehow
seemed more lonely still for the presence of the little house with its
nailed-up windows and smokeless chimney. Therese unlocked the door, and
once more explored the rooms, from which the furniture had all been
removed. She looked through the closets, and found and treasured up a
handkerchief of her mother's. Then she made all secure again, and sat
down on the steps to think.
"It is giving up a great deal—a great deal," she said to herself;
"there is no use in denying that. It is giving up not only the present
pleasure, but all the future gain. If I went abroad and learned French
at Paris, I might always earn a good salary, as good or better than
Miss Oliver's. But if it is my duty to stay, if it is a sacrifice He
asks of me, then all these things go for nothing and less than nothing.
"Grand-mère told me to look to the rock from whence I was hewed. It
is not a martyrdom like theirs to which I am called, and yet it is
in a way laying down my life. He laid down his life for us, and we
also should lay down our lives for the brethren. He laid down his
life for us—for me! I can lay down mine for him. Kitty loves me, and
will be sorry, but she has her cousins, and she will not want for
friends. Grand-mère has nobody but me, and she has always been kind to
me—always. Grandfather Beaubien says she was the best of mothers to my
poor mother; he says she is a saint, though she is a Protestant. But
if she were not, she is old and alone; she has no one but me belonging
to her; she is not fit to stay by herself. Doctor Gates says so, and I
can see it with my own eyes. If she has to take in a stranger, it will
spoil all the comfort of her life, and she may live ever so many years.
I believe it is a clear call," said Therese, speaking out loud in her
earnestness. "I believe He will give me grace to follow it, and will be
with me. He is with me."
Therese bowed her head on her hands, and sat some time without
speaking. At last she raised her head, and, startled to see how low the
sun was getting, she started up and walked rapidly home.
Life had been altered for Therese since the twilight talk with old
Hector McGregor recorded in a past chapter. She had been more or less
religiously inclined all her life, and for more than a year past she
had been conscientiously and earnestly trying to live a Christian life.
She believed all she had been taught, she loved to read her Bible, and
prayed in full faith of being heard. But she had never been able to
bring the things of eternity so near as to make them seem very real
to her. It was hard for her to think that her heavenly Father cared
individually for her, that he loved her personally and particularly,
and desired her love in return.
Then came the time of great and awful desolation, when she was forsaken
by that mother who had been her one object in life hitherto. All her
supports seemed cut away. She felt herself adrift, with nothing to do
and nobody to work for or to care for her. Heaven seemed very far away.
She too might live to be ninety years old, but there would be nobody to
care for her as his children did for Hector McGregor. She would always
bear the burden of her parents' sins. She would be Tone Beaubien's
daughter to the end of the chapter.
But after that evening all was changed. A new life had come to the
little girl, still almost a child in years. She had consecrated herself
to his service who never causes one to regret such a consecration, and
she had received in return the mystical gift, the white stone with a
new name written thereon which no man knows but he that hath it. She
felt herself accepted. She was no more alone, for one had promised to
be with her to the end of the world. He could make hard things easy, or
give more grace. He could turn even disgrace and shame to his glory. He
would give her work to do for him, and strength and wisdom to do it,
and what did she want more?
Therese was no idle dreamer. She did not look forward to doing great
things. She knew that not one in a thousand is called to a high place
in the sight of men. But she had seen in her grandmother Duval, in Mrs.
Tremaine and her cousin, yes, even in Kitty, young as she was, how the
little cares and labours of every day may be sanctified so as to make
everyday life a blessing to all around. That was what she asked for
herself.
Now a greater thing was asked of her, a real taking up of the cross.
It was no small sacrifice to renounce such a plan as had been made
for her, such a career as had been opened for her, to nurse her
grandmother's declining years, to hear all the remarks that would be
made and face the misconstructions that would perhaps be put upon her
change of plans. She knew there would be trials of temper and patience
both at home and abroad. She feared Grandfather Beaubien would be
displeased, for the Beaubiens had always felt some lurking jealousy of
old Madame Duval, who was the richest of the whole French settlement
and had the credit of thinking herself better than her neighbours.
Therese had come to that place where two roads met. One was fair and
flowery, leading as it seemed to green pastures and beside still
waters, to pleasant heights of prosperity; the other low and somewhat
rugged, with few flowers or trees, and leading she could not see where.
There was no stopping—no turning back. Therese made her choice. She
believed that a beam from heaven shone on the narrow rugged path, that
a voice said, "This is the way; walk ye in it," and after a moment's
hesitation she resolutely and humbly set her feet therein.
The next day she had a talk with Mrs. Tremaine and Kitty. Kitty could
hardly be brought to listen, and exclaimed,—
"After we have it all so nicely arranged! And what shall I do without
you? I do think you are too bad, even to think of such a thing!"
"Hush, dear!" said her mother. "Let us hear Therese tell her reasons."
Therese opened her heart to the bottom. She could hardly have done it
to any one else; but Mrs. Tremaine had been her Sunday school teacher
for years, and Kitty was a second self. Mrs. Tremaine was convinced,
and even Kitty was brought to say—
"Well, of course there wouldn't be any comfort if you went against your
duty and conscience and thought your grandmother was wanting you all
the time. But you must come to us if anything happens, mustn't she,
mamma?"
"Certainly—that must be understood. And, Therese, some provision must
be made for your education. Would your grandmother spare you to go to
school?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am. She doesn't really need a great deal done for her."
"And Therese can have my scholarship, can't she, mamma?"
"I think we can arrange it even better than that, Kitty. Yours has
only two years to run. Cousin Tilly's would be better, and as Marion
McGregor's withdrawal makes a vacancy, I have no doubt Cousin Tilly
will give the nomination to Therese."
So the matter was arranged, and Therese, feeling that her self-denial
was already rewarded, went down to communicate the news to her
grandmother. Madame Duval made some difficulty about her accepting the
sacrifice, but her delight at the proposal could not be concealed.
The Beaubiens were less easy to satisfy, but they were easy-going,
good-natured people, and the pride and pleasure of seeing their pet's
name among the young ladies of the Crocker school helped to smooth
matters.
And so it was all concluded at last. Kitty left Therese guardian of her
books and all her peculiar treasures and promised to write very often,
and Therese settled down in her little white-curtained bedroom at her
grandmother's, and began to study with all her might that she might
appear with credit at the opening of Miss Oliver's school.