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in the street with the rest of the town, talking, as all were talking,
of the sight that meaux should see to-morrow.
besides jacqueline, there was hardly another person in this great
building, six stories high, every room of which had usually a tenant at
this hour. she sat by her window, and looked at the dusky town, over
which the moon was rising. but her thoughts were far away; over many a
league they wandered.
once more she stood on the playground of her toilsome childhood. she
recalled many a year of sacrificing drudgery, which now she could not
name such,for another reason than that which had heretofore prevented
her from calling it a sacrifice. she remembered these years of wrong and
of extortion,they received their proper name now,years whose mirth
and leisure she had quietly foregone, but during which she had borne a
burden that saddened youth, while it also dignified it,a burden which
had made her hearts natural cheerfulness the subject of self-reproach,
and her maiden dreams and wishes matter for tears, for shame, for
confession, for prayer.
now victor le roys words came to her very strangely; powerfully they
moved her. she believed them in this solitude, where at leisure she
could meditate upon them. a vision more fair and blessed than she had
ever imagined rose before her. there was no suffering in it, and no
sorrow; it was full of peace. already, in the heaven to which she had
hoped her toil would give him at length admission, her father had found
his home. there was a glory in his rest not reflected from her filial
love, but from the all-availing love of christ.
thendelay the rigor of your judgment!she began,yes, she, this
jacqueline, began to count the cost of what she had done. she was not a
sordid soul, she had not a miserly nature. before she had gone far in
that strange computation, she paused abruptly, with a crimsoned face,
and not with tearless eyes. counting the cost! estimating the sacrifice!
had, then, her purpose been less holy because excited by falsehood and
sustained through delusion? was she less loving and less true, because
deceived? and was she to lament that christ, the one and only priest,
rather than another instrumentality, was the deliverer of her beloved
from the power of death?
no ritual was remembered, and no formula consulted, when she cried
out,it is so! and i thank thee! only give me now, my jesus, a
purpose as holy as that thou hast taken away!
but she had not come into her chamber to spend a solitary evening there.
turning away from the window, she bestowed a little care upon her
person, smoothed away the traces of her days labor, and after all was
done she lingered yet longer. she was going out, evidently. whither? to
visit the mother of john leclerc. she must carry back the tracts the
good woman had lent her. their contents had firm lodgement in her
others might run to and fro in the streets, and talk about the corners,
and prognosticate with passion, and defy, in the way of cowardice, where
safety rather than the truth is well assured. if one woman could console
another, jacqueline wished that she might console leclercs mother. and
if any words of wisdom could drop from the poor old womans lips while
her soul was in this strait, jacqueline desired to hear those words.
down the many flights of stairs she went across the court, and then
along the street, to the house where the wool-comber lived.
a brief pause followed her knock for admittance. she repeated it. then
was heard a sound from within,a step crossing the floor. the door
opened, and there stood the mother of leclerc, ready to face any danger,
the very fiend himself.
but when she saw that it was jacqueline, only jacqueline,an angel, as
one might say, and not a devil,the terrible look passed from her face;
she opened the door wide.
come in, child! come in!
so jacqueline went into the room where john had worked and thought,
reasoned, argued, prayed.
this is the home of the man because of whom many are this night offended
in the city of meaux. this is the place whence issued the power that has
set the tongues to talking, and the minds to thinking, and the hearts to
hoping, and the authorities to avenging.
a grain of mustard-seed is the kingdom of heaven in a figure; the
wandering winds a symbol of the pentecostal power: a dove did signify
the descent of god to man. this poor chamber, so pent in, and so lowly,
so obscure, has its significance. here has a life been lived; and not
the least does it import, that walls are rough and the ceiling low.
but the life of john leclerc was not to be limited. a power has stood
here which by its freedom has set at defiance the customary calculation
of the worldly-wise. in high places and in low the people are this night
disturbed because of him who has dared to lift his voice in the freedom
of the speech of god. in drawing-rooms odorous with luxury the mans
name has mention, and the vulgarity of his liberated speech and
courageous faith is a theme to move the wonder and excite the
reprobation of hearts whose languid beating keeps up their show of life,
to what sufficient purpose expect me not to tell. his voice is loud
and harsh to echo through these music-loving halls; it rends and tears,
with almost savage strength, the dainty silences.
but busier tongues are elsewhere more vehement in speech; larger
hearts beat faster indignation; grief and vulgarest curiosity are all
manifesting themselves after their several necessity. in solitary places
heroes pray throughout the night, wrestling like jacob, agonizing like
saul, and with some of them the angel left his blessing; for some the
golden harp was struck that soothed their souls to peace. angels of
heaven had work to do that night. angels of heaven and hell did prove
themselves that night in meaux: night of unrest and sleeplessness, or of
cruel dreaming; night of bloody visions, tortured by the apprehension
of a lacerated body driven through the city streets, and of the hooting
shouts of devildom; night haunted by a gory image,the defiled temple
of the holy ghost.
did the prospect of torture keep _him_ wakeful? could the man bear the
disgrace, the derision, shouting, agony? was there nothing in this
thought, that as a witness of jesus christ he was to appear next day,
that should soothe him even unto slumber? upon the silence of his
guarded chamber let none but ministering angels break. sacred to him,
and to him who watched the hours of the night, let the night go!
but herehis mother, jacqueline with herwe may linger with these.
when the old woman saw that it was jacqueline gabrie who stood waiting
admittance, she opened the door wider, as i said; and the dark solemnity
of her countenance seemed to be, by so much as a single ray, enlivened
for an instant