Constance Sherwood, Chapter I-II [pp. 78-96]

Constance Sherwood.
fear fell upon them all. I noticed
that all that evening they seemed
scared, and could not speak of this
appearance in the sky without shuddering. But one that was more bold
than the rest took heart, and cried,
"God send it does not forbode that
the Papists will murder us all in our
beds!" And Mistress Genings, whose
mother was a French Huguenot, said,
"Amen!" I marked that her husband and one or two more of the
company groaned, and one made, as
if unwittingly, the sign of the cross.
There were some I know in that town,
nay and in that house, that were at
heart of the old religion, albeit, by
reason of the times, they did not give
over attending Protestants' worship.
A few days later I was sitting alone,
and had a long fit of musing over the
many new thoughts that were crowding into my mind, as yet too childish
to master them, when Edmund came
in, and I saw he had been weeping.
He said nothing at first, and made
believe he was reading; but I could
see tears trickling down through his
fingers as he covered his face with
his hands. Presently he looked up
and cried out,
"Cousin Constance, Jack is going
away from us."
"And if it please God, not for a
long time," I answered; for it grieved
me to see him sad.
"Nay, but he is going for many
years, I fear," Edmund said. "My
uncle, Jean de Luc, has asked for him
to be brought up in his house at La
Rochelle. He is his godfather, and
has a great store of money, which he
says he will leave to Jack. Alack!
cousin Constance, I would that there
was no such thing in the world as
money, and no such country as France.
I wish we were all dead." And then
he fell to weeping again very bitterly.
I told him in a childish manner
what my mother was wont to say to
me when any little trouble fell to my
lot —that we should be patient, and
offer up our sufferings to God.
"But I can do nothing now for
Jack," he cried. "It was my first
thought at waking and my last at
night, how to please the dear urchin;
but now'tis all over."
"Oh, but Edmund," I cried, " an if
you were to be as good as the blessed
saints in heaven, you could do a great
deal for Jack."
"How so, cousin Constance?" he
asked, not comprehending my meaning,; and thereupon I answered:
"When once I said to my sweet
mother,'It grieves me, dear heart,
that I can give thee nothing, who
gives me so much,' she bade me take
heed that every prayer we say, every
good work we do, howsoever imperfect, and every pain we suffer, may be
offered up for those we love; and so
out of poverty, and weakness, and
sorrow, we have wherewith to make
precious and costly and cheerful gifts."
I spoke as a child, repeating what I
had heard; but he listened not as a
child. A sudden light came into his
eyes, and methinks his good angel
showed him in that hour more than
my poor lips could utter.
"If it be as your sweet mother
says," he joyfully cried, "we are rich
indeed; and, even though we be sinners and not saints, we have somewhat to give, I ween, if it be only our
heartaches, cousin Constance, so they
be seasoned with prayers."
The thought which in my simplicity
I had set before him took root, as it
were, in his mind. His love for a
little child had prepared the way for
it; and the great brotherly affection
which had so long dwelt in his heart
proved a harbinger of the more perfect gift of charity; so that a heavenly message was perchance conveyed
to him that day by one who likewise
was a child, even as the word of the
Lord came to the prophet through the
lips of the infant Samuel. From that
time forward he bore up bravely
against his grief; which was the
sharper inasmuch that he who was the
cause of it showed none in return, but
rather joy in the expectancy of the
change which was to part them. He
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