Chapter Sixteen.The winter wore slowly away. The snow was fast disappearing from mountain and fields, and the streets were growing dirty and uneven, as, under the influence of the sun in the lengthening days of March, the ice began to yield, and an early spring was anticipated.Except for the sunshine, which is usually bright, this is not a pleasant time of the year in the city of M—. It is a time for high winds, and the streets are rough when the frost is strong, and very wet and slippery when the thaw sets in; and people who are not obliged to go out, usually keep within doors for a week or two, till the season advances, and the streets are cleared. But when, as happens in most seasons, a heavy fall of snow comes to restore for a day the reign of winter, few fail to avail themselves of the opportunity to renew the winter’s chief enjoyment. Sleigh bells tinkle merrily, and the streets are full of gay equipages gliding smoothly and noiselessly to and fro.Such a day came after a week of alternate rain and wind and sleet, and the sisters gladly found themselves speeding away from home and from the city streets. The fresh air, the sunshine, and the rapid motion had an exhilarating effect upon their spirits after the confinement of the last few days, and the burden of doubt and dread that had fallen on them grew lighter. The last English letter had been less discouraging than the former ones; Frederica was growing better and stronger, and they were more cheerful and lively than they had been for a long time. Neither Madame Precoe nor Miss Agnace was with them, and they amused themselves with making plans as to what they were to do when their father came home. For a long time it had been, “If papa comes home,” but to-day they said cheerfully, “When papa comes home.”“Oh, how glad papa will be to see us all again!” said Frederica. “And, Lena and Tessie, I think he must have changed in some things.”“He will be glad to get home, I am sure; but as to his being changed—I don’t know about that,” said Tessie.“He has suffered so much,” said Frederica; “and God sends suffering to do people good. And besides, Cecilia’s letters make me think so.”“And his little letters to us,” said Selina.“Oh! if he were only safe home with us again!” said Frederica. “This has been such a long winter, and I am afraid to think of the summer without papa or any one.”“Any one! We have only too many people;” and Tessie went on to say something not at all polite about Madame and Father Jerome, and they were in danger of taking up their burden again as they came back to the town.“Where are we?” asked Selina as the street noises told her they were near home.“We are in M— Street, near where the tall poplars are. They are building a new house, and the fence has fallen down, and there are a great many sleighs passing along,” said Frederica, as her manner was, using her eyes for her sister’s benefit; and then Tessie went on,—“And here are school-boys, hundreds of them, I should think. Listen to the noise as they pass. A shabby lot they are. The Brothers should dress their boys in uniform—they would look much nicer. One would think all the old clothes in the town had been collected for their benefit.”“Listen,” said Selina suddenly, “Some one is calling Fred.”They listened, but amid the jingling of bells and the trampling of feet nothing was heard.“It was Charlie’s voice. I am quite sure it was Charlie’s voice,” said Selina.“But Lena dear, it is quite impossible,” said Tessie. “Charlie is far away.”“It was Charlie’s voice. First he called ‘Fred,’ and then ‘Lena, Lena.’”The horses’ heads were turned, and they drove slowly along by the line of boys. There was noise enough, laughing, talking, and exclaiming, but no voice called ‘Fred’ or ‘Lena.’ When they had passed, they turned again, and waited as the boys moved on, and both Fred and Tessie eagerly scanned each face as it came near. There were all sorts of faces, dark and fair, handsome and ugly, bright, eager, laughing faces, and faces stupid, dull, and unhappy. But the face of Charlie was not among them.“It was Charlie’s voice,” said Selina, and nothing could move her from that.They went home full of wonder and anxiety. They told Miss Agnace about the voice that Selina had heard, but Miss Agnace said nothing. They told Madame Precoe, when she came in, and she expressed more surprise than she needed to have expressed, seeing she had already heard all about the incident from Louis the coachman, as indeed, she generally heard of the incidents, and even of the conversations, that attended their drives, when she was not with them.By-and-by Mr Jerome came in, and he was interested too, but laughed a little at Selina’s fancy.“You were thinking of your brother, and imagined the voice,” said he.Selina said nothing.“Or rather, you heard many voices, and the names were a fancy, or why should not your sisters have heard them also? It is nothing to look so grave about, my child.”“It was Charlie’s voice,” said Selina.“And we were not thinking of our brothers, but looking and talking. And Selina hears much more readily than we do,” said Tessie.Frederica said nothing. She was not strong yet, and she was in that nervous anxious state when nothing in the way of trouble seems impossible, and she looked pale and unhappy.“Could we not go to the school and ask if Charlie was among the boys?” said Tessie.“We could certainly do that,” said Father Jerome, “if it would set your minds at rest. Shall we go at once?”But Madame said the girls needed rest, and they must wait till to-morrow, or at least till afternoon, and this was acquiesced in by them all.Of course, when they went there, they found no Charlie. They found a great many boys, who scanned them with sharp, attentive eyes, as they passed down the long class-room. They heard them sing and do some of their lessons, and they saw them file down to the long dining-hall to their supper of dry bread and pease coffee. Then they went through other long rooms, and through the great dormitory, where the little grey beds stood close together in long rows, and where nothing else was seen. They went up many stairs, and looked down on numberless city roofs, and that was all.Everybody was polite and attentive, and thanked them for coming, and asked them to come again. Then Madame Precoe and each of the girls put a piece of money in the charity box that hung on the wall near the door, and then they went away.That was all. Of course it had been very foolish in them to expect to see their brother, Fred and Tessie said to one another as they walked down the stairs; but when they came home and saw Selina’s expectant face, they looked at one another in doubt again.Madame sat with them that evening, and exerted herself to amuse them and to withdraw their thoughts from their brother, and from Selina’s foolish fancy about the voice she had heard. Miss Agnace was rarely with them when Madame was there, and when she went upstairs with them she would not linger to talk with them as she sometimes did.“You are not to listen to them or speak about this foolish fancy, and they will forget it,” said Madame to her. “In a few days it will not matter what they know. But in the meantime they might complicate matters by discussing their affairs with other people. And remember, should any one call when I am out, the young ladies are engaged. And should it be impossible to deny any one, remember you must know all that may be said.”Miss Agnace assented silently.“And when you go as usual to Mr St. Cyr’s, remember you are to say nothing of this foolish fancy of Miss Selina’s. He could do nothing, even if he understood; and they will soon be out of his hands, and the sooner the better for all concerned. You understand what I wish, do you not?”Again Miss Agnace assented in silence. She was by no means sure how all this would seem to her, when she should have time to think it over, but there was nothing to be said. She was not bound to obey blindly Madame Precoe’s commands, except as they expressed the will of Father Jerome also; and in the single moment in which she permitted herself to question, a great many unhappy thoughts rushed into her mind. And they would not be put away, even when it became clear to her that for the plans with regard to the future of these children, and all that they involved, Father Jerome was responsible. Madame Precoe was but an instrument in his hands, as she herself was. Father Jerome must not be accused of doing wrong—at least, the end he had in view was right, and that ought to be enough.Ought it to be enough? Poor Sister Agnace had never been in the habit of deciding between right and wrong for herself, and she was sadly puzzled now. It was such a pity, she thought, that it was necessary to deceive these children for their good. There would be strong resistance on their part, she began to fear, to the power that was shaping their fate.“And they will suffer. Oh! how they will suffer?” said the poor anxious creature to herself. “But it is for their souls’ sake, and their suffering will only be for this world; and surely, Mary and the saints will soften their trouble, poor darlings! Father Jerome must, of course, be right. But it hurts me to deceive them, because they love me a little, and trust me.”She went that night to pay her usual monthly visit to Mr St. Cyr. She answered his questions. She told him no lie, but she kept silence, as Madame had bidden her, about all that could have awakened the anxiety of their friend and guardian on their account. Unintentionally she made him aware that Madame Precoe was living with them; but he said nothing.He thanked Miss Agnace for her care of the girls and their mother, and for her love and faithfulness to them, and expressed a hope that as long as they should need her, she might be permitted to remain with them. Poor Miss Agnace! She went into a church on her way home, and knelt for a long hour or two in the cold and darkness, but she carried still her burden of doubt and care when she went away.A few more weeks passed away. Frederica said nothing now about going to her father, for they were not without hope that when the spring came he might return home. He longed very much to come, they knew, and they permitted themselves to hope, almost to believe, that they would see him again, and waited for his coning with what patience they could command.Tessie went to school again after the Easter holidays, and they missed her sadly. But they both strove conscientiously, not only to be patient, but to be happy, in the great lonely house that had so changed to them. But waiting is weary work to young and eager hearts, and time passed slowly.The day for Tessie’s first visit came, and they amused themselves making preparations for her entertainment. But hour after hour passed, and she did not appear. Instead of Tessie, came Madame with her work-basket in her hand, and with the evident intention of remaining. It was not a pleasant prospect, and it is to be feared they were not quite able to hide their discomfort under it.“Frederica,” said Madame, “pray do not be so restless—so unsettled. You had much better take your work, and be content to sit still.” But Frederica could settle to nothing till Tessie came.“Expect Tessie? Nay, you need not do that Tessie is not coming home.”“Excuse me, Madame, but it was certainly to-day that we agreed on for her visit, and Miss Glencairn will be sure to allow her.”“But unfortunately it is not a question of Miss Glencairn’s kindness. It has long been evident that Miss Tessie has got beyond Miss Glencairn and her little attempts at education; and she has been sent elsewhere—to the ladies of the Sacred Heart, where you all should have been sent long ago. I have no doubt she will be quite happy there. She will, at all events, be judiciously dealt with.”Astonishment kept the sisters silent, and Madame went on—“A most necessary and important step, I consider it. It is only to be regretted that so much time has been lost.”Frederica so trembled with indignation, that she could not speak. Selina made a movement toward her, and holding her hand firmly, said,—“Remember, Fred, nothing can really harm Tessie, or any of us. And, Madame, you will excuse us from discussing this matter withyou. It is painful to us, and it cannot concern you.”“Except as I approve of it entirely. You do me injustice. I take the greatest possible interest in this matter, and in you.”“And who took the responsibility to advise such a step?” asked Frederica. “Does Mr St. Cyr know it? What do you suppose papa will say?”“I advised it, and Mr Jerome St. Cyr saw the propriety of it. Mr St. Cyr is in no state of health to say anything about such a matter. As for Mr Vane—” added Madame, and paused, with a look that sent a chill to the girls’ hearts. There had no letter come to them by the last mail.“What of papa?” said Selina, “Have you heard anything that we do not know?”“As to this affair of Tessie? No, I have heard nothing. Should he ever return, he will doubtless recall her, unless she should wish to remain. I dare say she is quite happy there by this time.”“Fred, love, do not let us vex ourselves. Tessie is at least quite safe there. But, Madame, why was it thought necessary to conceal her going there from us? Why did you deceive us?”“Nay, you forget—I have nothing to do in this affair. I suppose Father Jerome feared that you might make yourselves unhappy. It was for your sakes that his intentions were not explained to you. Now that your sister is there, you must acknowledge that the convent is quite the best place for her. At all events, no change will be made now.”Frederica was sick at heart. If she were to utter the angry words that rose to her lips, she knew it would do no good. She knew not what to do.“Fortunately, here comes Father Jerome; you may discuss the matter with him, and I will leave you;” and Madame rose to leave the room.“At this moment it would not be agreeable to us,” said Selina. “He has deceived us, and we decline to see him just now.”“What right has he to intermeddle in our affairs?” burst in Frederica; “a man whom neither our father nor mother ever trusted.”Madame laughed.“It is as well to decline his visit at this moment. Later he will, I think, make you understand his right to meddle in your affairs, and his power to do so,” said Madame, as she left the room.“Selina, what shall we do? Selina, I am beginning to be afraid.”“But then you know, dear, nothing can really harm us. You read it yesterday—‘Who is he that can harm you, if ye be followers of that which is good?’”“Oh! I don’t remember, and that may not mean us. Selina, I am afraid.”“But, Fred, love, it must mean us, I think. We must not let the promise go, as though God would change. Read it, dear—to please me;” and she put the Bible into her sister’s hand. “And in another place it is said, ‘All things shall work together for good to them that love God.’ We love Him, Fred. He has been very good to us.”Frederica took the Bible and read,—“‘For the eyes of the Lord are over the righteous, and His ears are open unto their prayers. But the face of the Lord is against them that do evil.“‘And who is he that will harm you, if ye be followers of that which is good?’”Selina’s face grew bright as she listened.“Fred, love, why should we be afraid? It is wrong to be afraid.”“Well,” said Frederica, with a long breath, “I will not be afraid. I think I am more angry than afraid.”“But anger will not help us. Read what you read yesterday,” said Selina.Frederica read on to the end of the chapter, and then turned back to the one before it, the second of First Peter. They could not have explained all those beautiful and wonderful words—nay, they knew that most of them they understood very imperfectly. But they could take comfort from them, lingering over a verse here and there, and speaking to one another words which might not have been very wise, but which were always reverent and trustful.“It is ‘as new-born babes’ that He speaks to us. And babes are neither wise nor strong. But He cares for them all the same, and surely we ‘have tasted that the Lord is gracious,’” said Selina.And so she went on to the end. It quieted them, and they went out to the garden to get the good of the sunshine, not less cheerfully than usual. The faces that the priest caught sight of as they passed were brighter than he had seen them for a good while.“See, they have forgotten their troubles already,” said he, smiling. “You are mistaken in thinking they will resist. Sister Agnace is mistaken in thinking they will suffer. They will yield to circumstances and a strong will. From whom could they have inherited strength? Neither from father nor mother.”“Frederica is like the little Jewess her grandmother. She may have inherited her strength,” said Madame. “I wish you could have seen her as I saw her a little while ago.”“Ah, well! She has forgotten her anger already. See the little butterfly flitting about in the garden. There is nothing to fear from her.”“I will send Sister Agnace to keep an eye on your butterfly. It is not necessary that they should tell their affairs to old Dixen who is there.”She returned immediately.“Of what are you then afraid, if not of the ‘little Jewess’?” asked she.“There is nothing to fear. Everything is prospering beyond my hopes.”“And your brother?”“He is better. But I do not think he will seriously object to the plans I have in view for these children. Indeed, I have no plans for them. That will be for those who are to be appointed as their guardians. I hope to name these guardians. Cyprien may not agree with me, but still I think it can be arranged to suit us both.”“And are you sure that their mother and your brother did not appoint them, even after you found the torn paper on your brother’s table?”“It is impossible. If indeed there were any guardians legally appointed, that might make the work I have set myself more difficult. Other means would have to be used.”“Ah, well! I doubt if ever you can make a nun of ‘the little Jewess,’” said Madame.“Nothing is farther from my wish than to do that. Her sister shall be a nun and a saint, and if by any miracle of science and skill her blindness may be cured, it shall be so done, that even by that the Church shall receive honour, and her power be extended and strengthened. Your ‘little Jewess,’ your ‘butterfly,’ shall be allowed to shine in society, and to take her fill of the pleasure she tasted last year. A few years with the good sisters first will do much for her. When she is properly submissive to those who have a right to direct her, she shall have her own way. I am not afraid.”“And her brothers: what are they to be?”“After ten, or even seven years with the good fathers, they shall choose for themselves.”“And if Mr Vane should return? It is not impossible.”“Itisimpossible. Mr Vane is dead.”“Dead!” repeated Madame. Even she was shocked at the tidings, or the suddenness of the announcement.“I have known it for a week. Cyprien does not know it yet, but all must know it soon.”“And have you come to tell these girls?”“No. They will probably have letters to-night,—the steamer has arrived, I see,—and then no time must be lost. They must not have a chance to talk over their affairs with all the world, who will come to condole with them.”“And will you not see them?”“You forget. They decline to see me,” said the priest laughing. “I hope to find them in better humour another time.”Madame did not laugh.“It is not impossible that all your plans for them may be frustrated after all,” said she.“For the moment, it is not impossible. But I shall never, while I live, give up the hope of making them and their wealth of use to the Church, and when I die others will take up the work. There is nothing impossible. They, or their children, or their children’s children—and their wealth must be ours.”“There is only God Himself stronger than you and the Church, and these children believe Him to be on their side.”“They are but children,” said the priest, but he frowned darkly at her words, as he turned to go away.Madame sat still, looking after him in silence, Mr Jerome’s tidings had moved her more than she would have thought possible. She sat lost in painful thoughts till Miss Agnace came in. She felt that she could not yet meet the questioning eyes of these orphan girls.“I am going out,” said she, rising hastily. “If any one calls, the young ladies are not to be seen.”She went out immediately and Miss Agnace did not follow her to say to her what she had come to say.“It will keep. Perhaps she need not be told,” said she to herself.It seemed that Miss Agnace had not been needed in the garden, or rather the need for her was past, before she had been sent out. She met the girls returning to the house. They were very quiet but there was some restrained excitement in their manners, as she remembered afterwards. They went to their own room, where she had supposed they both remained till she went to tell them that luncheon was served. But only Selina was there. Frederica had gone to see their sister Caroline, she told Miss Agnace.“But my dear, should she not have asked permission, or at least have said that she was going, or have taken the carriage. It is not well that a young lady should go out alone, and she is not strong.”“Of whom should she ask permission?” said Selina coldly.And so Miss Agnace had gone to let Madame know, as Madame expected her to let her know everything that went on in the house. But she had not waited to hear, and Frederica had been allowed to have her own way.
The winter wore slowly away. The snow was fast disappearing from mountain and fields, and the streets were growing dirty and uneven, as, under the influence of the sun in the lengthening days of March, the ice began to yield, and an early spring was anticipated.
Except for the sunshine, which is usually bright, this is not a pleasant time of the year in the city of M—. It is a time for high winds, and the streets are rough when the frost is strong, and very wet and slippery when the thaw sets in; and people who are not obliged to go out, usually keep within doors for a week or two, till the season advances, and the streets are cleared. But when, as happens in most seasons, a heavy fall of snow comes to restore for a day the reign of winter, few fail to avail themselves of the opportunity to renew the winter’s chief enjoyment. Sleigh bells tinkle merrily, and the streets are full of gay equipages gliding smoothly and noiselessly to and fro.
Such a day came after a week of alternate rain and wind and sleet, and the sisters gladly found themselves speeding away from home and from the city streets. The fresh air, the sunshine, and the rapid motion had an exhilarating effect upon their spirits after the confinement of the last few days, and the burden of doubt and dread that had fallen on them grew lighter. The last English letter had been less discouraging than the former ones; Frederica was growing better and stronger, and they were more cheerful and lively than they had been for a long time. Neither Madame Precoe nor Miss Agnace was with them, and they amused themselves with making plans as to what they were to do when their father came home. For a long time it had been, “If papa comes home,” but to-day they said cheerfully, “When papa comes home.”
“Oh, how glad papa will be to see us all again!” said Frederica. “And, Lena and Tessie, I think he must have changed in some things.”
“He will be glad to get home, I am sure; but as to his being changed—I don’t know about that,” said Tessie.
“He has suffered so much,” said Frederica; “and God sends suffering to do people good. And besides, Cecilia’s letters make me think so.”
“And his little letters to us,” said Selina.
“Oh! if he were only safe home with us again!” said Frederica. “This has been such a long winter, and I am afraid to think of the summer without papa or any one.”
“Any one! We have only too many people;” and Tessie went on to say something not at all polite about Madame and Father Jerome, and they were in danger of taking up their burden again as they came back to the town.
“Where are we?” asked Selina as the street noises told her they were near home.
“We are in M— Street, near where the tall poplars are. They are building a new house, and the fence has fallen down, and there are a great many sleighs passing along,” said Frederica, as her manner was, using her eyes for her sister’s benefit; and then Tessie went on,—
“And here are school-boys, hundreds of them, I should think. Listen to the noise as they pass. A shabby lot they are. The Brothers should dress their boys in uniform—they would look much nicer. One would think all the old clothes in the town had been collected for their benefit.”
“Listen,” said Selina suddenly, “Some one is calling Fred.”
They listened, but amid the jingling of bells and the trampling of feet nothing was heard.
“It was Charlie’s voice. I am quite sure it was Charlie’s voice,” said Selina.
“But Lena dear, it is quite impossible,” said Tessie. “Charlie is far away.”
“It was Charlie’s voice. First he called ‘Fred,’ and then ‘Lena, Lena.’”
The horses’ heads were turned, and they drove slowly along by the line of boys. There was noise enough, laughing, talking, and exclaiming, but no voice called ‘Fred’ or ‘Lena.’ When they had passed, they turned again, and waited as the boys moved on, and both Fred and Tessie eagerly scanned each face as it came near. There were all sorts of faces, dark and fair, handsome and ugly, bright, eager, laughing faces, and faces stupid, dull, and unhappy. But the face of Charlie was not among them.
“It was Charlie’s voice,” said Selina, and nothing could move her from that.
They went home full of wonder and anxiety. They told Miss Agnace about the voice that Selina had heard, but Miss Agnace said nothing. They told Madame Precoe, when she came in, and she expressed more surprise than she needed to have expressed, seeing she had already heard all about the incident from Louis the coachman, as indeed, she generally heard of the incidents, and even of the conversations, that attended their drives, when she was not with them.
By-and-by Mr Jerome came in, and he was interested too, but laughed a little at Selina’s fancy.
“You were thinking of your brother, and imagined the voice,” said he.
Selina said nothing.
“Or rather, you heard many voices, and the names were a fancy, or why should not your sisters have heard them also? It is nothing to look so grave about, my child.”
“It was Charlie’s voice,” said Selina.
“And we were not thinking of our brothers, but looking and talking. And Selina hears much more readily than we do,” said Tessie.
Frederica said nothing. She was not strong yet, and she was in that nervous anxious state when nothing in the way of trouble seems impossible, and she looked pale and unhappy.
“Could we not go to the school and ask if Charlie was among the boys?” said Tessie.
“We could certainly do that,” said Father Jerome, “if it would set your minds at rest. Shall we go at once?”
But Madame said the girls needed rest, and they must wait till to-morrow, or at least till afternoon, and this was acquiesced in by them all.
Of course, when they went there, they found no Charlie. They found a great many boys, who scanned them with sharp, attentive eyes, as they passed down the long class-room. They heard them sing and do some of their lessons, and they saw them file down to the long dining-hall to their supper of dry bread and pease coffee. Then they went through other long rooms, and through the great dormitory, where the little grey beds stood close together in long rows, and where nothing else was seen. They went up many stairs, and looked down on numberless city roofs, and that was all.
Everybody was polite and attentive, and thanked them for coming, and asked them to come again. Then Madame Precoe and each of the girls put a piece of money in the charity box that hung on the wall near the door, and then they went away.
That was all. Of course it had been very foolish in them to expect to see their brother, Fred and Tessie said to one another as they walked down the stairs; but when they came home and saw Selina’s expectant face, they looked at one another in doubt again.
Madame sat with them that evening, and exerted herself to amuse them and to withdraw their thoughts from their brother, and from Selina’s foolish fancy about the voice she had heard. Miss Agnace was rarely with them when Madame was there, and when she went upstairs with them she would not linger to talk with them as she sometimes did.
“You are not to listen to them or speak about this foolish fancy, and they will forget it,” said Madame to her. “In a few days it will not matter what they know. But in the meantime they might complicate matters by discussing their affairs with other people. And remember, should any one call when I am out, the young ladies are engaged. And should it be impossible to deny any one, remember you must know all that may be said.”
Miss Agnace assented silently.
“And when you go as usual to Mr St. Cyr’s, remember you are to say nothing of this foolish fancy of Miss Selina’s. He could do nothing, even if he understood; and they will soon be out of his hands, and the sooner the better for all concerned. You understand what I wish, do you not?”
Again Miss Agnace assented in silence. She was by no means sure how all this would seem to her, when she should have time to think it over, but there was nothing to be said. She was not bound to obey blindly Madame Precoe’s commands, except as they expressed the will of Father Jerome also; and in the single moment in which she permitted herself to question, a great many unhappy thoughts rushed into her mind. And they would not be put away, even when it became clear to her that for the plans with regard to the future of these children, and all that they involved, Father Jerome was responsible. Madame Precoe was but an instrument in his hands, as she herself was. Father Jerome must not be accused of doing wrong—at least, the end he had in view was right, and that ought to be enough.
Ought it to be enough? Poor Sister Agnace had never been in the habit of deciding between right and wrong for herself, and she was sadly puzzled now. It was such a pity, she thought, that it was necessary to deceive these children for their good. There would be strong resistance on their part, she began to fear, to the power that was shaping their fate.
“And they will suffer. Oh! how they will suffer?” said the poor anxious creature to herself. “But it is for their souls’ sake, and their suffering will only be for this world; and surely, Mary and the saints will soften their trouble, poor darlings! Father Jerome must, of course, be right. But it hurts me to deceive them, because they love me a little, and trust me.”
She went that night to pay her usual monthly visit to Mr St. Cyr. She answered his questions. She told him no lie, but she kept silence, as Madame had bidden her, about all that could have awakened the anxiety of their friend and guardian on their account. Unintentionally she made him aware that Madame Precoe was living with them; but he said nothing.
He thanked Miss Agnace for her care of the girls and their mother, and for her love and faithfulness to them, and expressed a hope that as long as they should need her, she might be permitted to remain with them. Poor Miss Agnace! She went into a church on her way home, and knelt for a long hour or two in the cold and darkness, but she carried still her burden of doubt and care when she went away.
A few more weeks passed away. Frederica said nothing now about going to her father, for they were not without hope that when the spring came he might return home. He longed very much to come, they knew, and they permitted themselves to hope, almost to believe, that they would see him again, and waited for his coning with what patience they could command.
Tessie went to school again after the Easter holidays, and they missed her sadly. But they both strove conscientiously, not only to be patient, but to be happy, in the great lonely house that had so changed to them. But waiting is weary work to young and eager hearts, and time passed slowly.
The day for Tessie’s first visit came, and they amused themselves making preparations for her entertainment. But hour after hour passed, and she did not appear. Instead of Tessie, came Madame with her work-basket in her hand, and with the evident intention of remaining. It was not a pleasant prospect, and it is to be feared they were not quite able to hide their discomfort under it.
“Frederica,” said Madame, “pray do not be so restless—so unsettled. You had much better take your work, and be content to sit still.” But Frederica could settle to nothing till Tessie came.
“Expect Tessie? Nay, you need not do that Tessie is not coming home.”
“Excuse me, Madame, but it was certainly to-day that we agreed on for her visit, and Miss Glencairn will be sure to allow her.”
“But unfortunately it is not a question of Miss Glencairn’s kindness. It has long been evident that Miss Tessie has got beyond Miss Glencairn and her little attempts at education; and she has been sent elsewhere—to the ladies of the Sacred Heart, where you all should have been sent long ago. I have no doubt she will be quite happy there. She will, at all events, be judiciously dealt with.”
Astonishment kept the sisters silent, and Madame went on—
“A most necessary and important step, I consider it. It is only to be regretted that so much time has been lost.”
Frederica so trembled with indignation, that she could not speak. Selina made a movement toward her, and holding her hand firmly, said,—
“Remember, Fred, nothing can really harm Tessie, or any of us. And, Madame, you will excuse us from discussing this matter withyou. It is painful to us, and it cannot concern you.”
“Except as I approve of it entirely. You do me injustice. I take the greatest possible interest in this matter, and in you.”
“And who took the responsibility to advise such a step?” asked Frederica. “Does Mr St. Cyr know it? What do you suppose papa will say?”
“I advised it, and Mr Jerome St. Cyr saw the propriety of it. Mr St. Cyr is in no state of health to say anything about such a matter. As for Mr Vane—” added Madame, and paused, with a look that sent a chill to the girls’ hearts. There had no letter come to them by the last mail.
“What of papa?” said Selina, “Have you heard anything that we do not know?”
“As to this affair of Tessie? No, I have heard nothing. Should he ever return, he will doubtless recall her, unless she should wish to remain. I dare say she is quite happy there by this time.”
“Fred, love, do not let us vex ourselves. Tessie is at least quite safe there. But, Madame, why was it thought necessary to conceal her going there from us? Why did you deceive us?”
“Nay, you forget—I have nothing to do in this affair. I suppose Father Jerome feared that you might make yourselves unhappy. It was for your sakes that his intentions were not explained to you. Now that your sister is there, you must acknowledge that the convent is quite the best place for her. At all events, no change will be made now.”
Frederica was sick at heart. If she were to utter the angry words that rose to her lips, she knew it would do no good. She knew not what to do.
“Fortunately, here comes Father Jerome; you may discuss the matter with him, and I will leave you;” and Madame rose to leave the room.
“At this moment it would not be agreeable to us,” said Selina. “He has deceived us, and we decline to see him just now.”
“What right has he to intermeddle in our affairs?” burst in Frederica; “a man whom neither our father nor mother ever trusted.”
Madame laughed.
“It is as well to decline his visit at this moment. Later he will, I think, make you understand his right to meddle in your affairs, and his power to do so,” said Madame, as she left the room.
“Selina, what shall we do? Selina, I am beginning to be afraid.”
“But then you know, dear, nothing can really harm us. You read it yesterday—‘Who is he that can harm you, if ye be followers of that which is good?’”
“Oh! I don’t remember, and that may not mean us. Selina, I am afraid.”
“But, Fred, love, it must mean us, I think. We must not let the promise go, as though God would change. Read it, dear—to please me;” and she put the Bible into her sister’s hand. “And in another place it is said, ‘All things shall work together for good to them that love God.’ We love Him, Fred. He has been very good to us.”
Frederica took the Bible and read,—
“‘For the eyes of the Lord are over the righteous, and His ears are open unto their prayers. But the face of the Lord is against them that do evil.
“‘And who is he that will harm you, if ye be followers of that which is good?’”
Selina’s face grew bright as she listened.
“Fred, love, why should we be afraid? It is wrong to be afraid.”
“Well,” said Frederica, with a long breath, “I will not be afraid. I think I am more angry than afraid.”
“But anger will not help us. Read what you read yesterday,” said Selina.
Frederica read on to the end of the chapter, and then turned back to the one before it, the second of First Peter. They could not have explained all those beautiful and wonderful words—nay, they knew that most of them they understood very imperfectly. But they could take comfort from them, lingering over a verse here and there, and speaking to one another words which might not have been very wise, but which were always reverent and trustful.
“It is ‘as new-born babes’ that He speaks to us. And babes are neither wise nor strong. But He cares for them all the same, and surely we ‘have tasted that the Lord is gracious,’” said Selina.
And so she went on to the end. It quieted them, and they went out to the garden to get the good of the sunshine, not less cheerfully than usual. The faces that the priest caught sight of as they passed were brighter than he had seen them for a good while.
“See, they have forgotten their troubles already,” said he, smiling. “You are mistaken in thinking they will resist. Sister Agnace is mistaken in thinking they will suffer. They will yield to circumstances and a strong will. From whom could they have inherited strength? Neither from father nor mother.”
“Frederica is like the little Jewess her grandmother. She may have inherited her strength,” said Madame. “I wish you could have seen her as I saw her a little while ago.”
“Ah, well! She has forgotten her anger already. See the little butterfly flitting about in the garden. There is nothing to fear from her.”
“I will send Sister Agnace to keep an eye on your butterfly. It is not necessary that they should tell their affairs to old Dixen who is there.”
She returned immediately.
“Of what are you then afraid, if not of the ‘little Jewess’?” asked she.
“There is nothing to fear. Everything is prospering beyond my hopes.”
“And your brother?”
“He is better. But I do not think he will seriously object to the plans I have in view for these children. Indeed, I have no plans for them. That will be for those who are to be appointed as their guardians. I hope to name these guardians. Cyprien may not agree with me, but still I think it can be arranged to suit us both.”
“And are you sure that their mother and your brother did not appoint them, even after you found the torn paper on your brother’s table?”
“It is impossible. If indeed there were any guardians legally appointed, that might make the work I have set myself more difficult. Other means would have to be used.”
“Ah, well! I doubt if ever you can make a nun of ‘the little Jewess,’” said Madame.
“Nothing is farther from my wish than to do that. Her sister shall be a nun and a saint, and if by any miracle of science and skill her blindness may be cured, it shall be so done, that even by that the Church shall receive honour, and her power be extended and strengthened. Your ‘little Jewess,’ your ‘butterfly,’ shall be allowed to shine in society, and to take her fill of the pleasure she tasted last year. A few years with the good sisters first will do much for her. When she is properly submissive to those who have a right to direct her, she shall have her own way. I am not afraid.”
“And her brothers: what are they to be?”
“After ten, or even seven years with the good fathers, they shall choose for themselves.”
“And if Mr Vane should return? It is not impossible.”
“Itisimpossible. Mr Vane is dead.”
“Dead!” repeated Madame. Even she was shocked at the tidings, or the suddenness of the announcement.
“I have known it for a week. Cyprien does not know it yet, but all must know it soon.”
“And have you come to tell these girls?”
“No. They will probably have letters to-night,—the steamer has arrived, I see,—and then no time must be lost. They must not have a chance to talk over their affairs with all the world, who will come to condole with them.”
“And will you not see them?”
“You forget. They decline to see me,” said the priest laughing. “I hope to find them in better humour another time.”
Madame did not laugh.
“It is not impossible that all your plans for them may be frustrated after all,” said she.
“For the moment, it is not impossible. But I shall never, while I live, give up the hope of making them and their wealth of use to the Church, and when I die others will take up the work. There is nothing impossible. They, or their children, or their children’s children—and their wealth must be ours.”
“There is only God Himself stronger than you and the Church, and these children believe Him to be on their side.”
“They are but children,” said the priest, but he frowned darkly at her words, as he turned to go away.
Madame sat still, looking after him in silence, Mr Jerome’s tidings had moved her more than she would have thought possible. She sat lost in painful thoughts till Miss Agnace came in. She felt that she could not yet meet the questioning eyes of these orphan girls.
“I am going out,” said she, rising hastily. “If any one calls, the young ladies are not to be seen.”
She went out immediately and Miss Agnace did not follow her to say to her what she had come to say.
“It will keep. Perhaps she need not be told,” said she to herself.
It seemed that Miss Agnace had not been needed in the garden, or rather the need for her was past, before she had been sent out. She met the girls returning to the house. They were very quiet but there was some restrained excitement in their manners, as she remembered afterwards. They went to their own room, where she had supposed they both remained till she went to tell them that luncheon was served. But only Selina was there. Frederica had gone to see their sister Caroline, she told Miss Agnace.
“But my dear, should she not have asked permission, or at least have said that she was going, or have taken the carriage. It is not well that a young lady should go out alone, and she is not strong.”
“Of whom should she ask permission?” said Selina coldly.
And so Miss Agnace had gone to let Madame know, as Madame expected her to let her know everything that went on in the house. But she had not waited to hear, and Frederica had been allowed to have her own way.
Chapter Seventeen.Madame Precoe’s care in sending Sister Agnace into the garden because of old Dixen, had been more needed than she supposed, but it came too late to be of use. The old man had been busy near one of the walks as they entered, and he had answered their greeting very briefly. But as he stooped again he said hurriedly,—“She thinks I am blind, but I can see her and the priest at the window looking out. Go round to the other side behind the hedge, young ladies dear, for I have something to tell you.”He worked on for a little while after they had disappeared. He worked his way along the walk till he was out of sight of the windows, then coming close to them he said in a whisper, as though he feared to be overheard,—“I have seen the little lads. Mrs Hearn told me something that made me think they were at the school with her boys. I never let on that it was not all right, and I watched afterwards, and saw them walking with the rest. But they do not always walk, and they are well watched.”“I knew it was Charlie’s voice,” said Selina.“Oh! Lena! Oh! Dixen! What shall we do?” said Frederica, clasping her hands.“Fred love! God will take care of them.” But Selina herself grew pale.“And is it true that Miss Tessie was sent away to the convent without a word to you two?” went on Dixen. “I’m sore feared that something must have happened to the master, or they would never have dared to do that.”“But it cannot be that, Dixen. For the boys must have been there a long time. They were never sent back, I suppose,” said Frederica.“And we have heard nothing from papa for a fortnight,” said Selina.“It does not look well,” said Dixen. “But, children dear, you are not to fret. The boys are safe enough. No harm can come to them. We are living in the Queen’s dominions, thank God, and evil things can only be done in secret. And, Miss Fred dear, you should go to Mrs Brandon, and tell her about Miss Tessie and the little lads. And somebody that is wise in the law should be told. I would have gone myself, but nobody would heed such a story from the like of me. I am sore feared that no good is meant to you all. And the priests are everywhere, and have the means of making men do their will, that we know nothing of. Only here they must keep things quieter than in some places. But don’t let them smuggle you all off without a word. They will tell you it is your souls they would save, but it is your grandfather’s money they want as well. And here is that soft-spoken nun coming to hear what I may be saying. Be sure you go to your sister this very day.”In his increasing excitement the old man used some words that are not put down, and he went muttering to himself away.“Here is Miss Agnace,” said Frederica.“We must be very quiet, and let her see nothing. Let us walk round the other way to the house,” said Selina.“And I will go to Caroline. Anything is better than to sit still and think about it,” said Frederica excitedly.They walked very quietly into the house, and went to their room.“I will go at once, as Dixen said,” and Frederica’s preparations were soon made.The room where Madame and the priest were sitting looked back upon the garden, so she got away without being seen. She had gone but a few steps, when she heard Dixen’s voice behind her.“You are but weakly yet, Miss Frederica,” said he, when she waited for him, “and I will come with you. Just you go on without heeding me. I will keep in sight. Can you walk all the way, think you?”Frederica was doubtful about it. She was excited, and trembling, hot and cold by turns. She was not very hopeful as to any help she could get from her sister. She was ill, and her husband was cautious, and not easily moved, and above all averse to interfere in matters where his right to do so was not acknowledged.“And he will say it is Mr St. Cyr that is doing all this—and it is not impossible,” said Frederica, with a new pang of terror. “But I don’t think he would deceive us. I will go to the school myself. I will take them by surprise, and they will not have time to hide them as they must have done before, and I will take them away.”It was not a very wise idea. Dixen shook his head, but Frederica persisted, and the old man followed her up the street. But before they had gone far they heard the hum of many voices, and the long line of boys came in sight. Frederica turned into a doorway, and waited till they passed, scanning each face eagerly. They were for the most part bigger boys than her brothers. She looked in vain for the face of either of them, and stood gazing blankly after the long line as it passed down the street. The gate stood open, and she went and looked in. The side door stood open also.“Dixen,” said she hurriedly, “I am going in. They cannot do me any harm, and I may see Charlie, or little Hubert.”But this seemed a dreadful thing to Dixen.“Miss Frederica, I cannot think it would be well to go. No one knows what might happen,” said he in distress.“I am not afraid, Dixen. Yes, I am a little afraid. But I have prayed to God, and so has Selina, and He will take care of me. Wait at the corner; and if I don’t come out in half an hour; you must tell some one, and come for me.”But she did not keep him half that time. She went slowly up the steps and in at the door. She did not go forward into the wide hall as she had done when they came with Father Jerome, but turned at once, and went up a narrow stair, down which the sound of voices came. Still following the sound, she came to a room where a score or two of little boys were amusing themselves. They did not see her at first, and she stood watching them for a little while. She did not see her brothers, but she called softly several times,—“Charlie! Hubert! are you here?” And as she spoke, a little hand touched hers, and she turned to meet the wondering eyes of her youngest brother. Without a word, she drew him outside of the room, and along the passage toward the stairs.“Where is Charlie?” uttered she with difficulty. “No, we must not look for him. I have one safe, and I can come again for Charlie.”It does not sound possible that this should have happened, but it is perfectly true. The stairs were passed, and the hall, and they ran across the yard, and into the street, and no eye had seen them. At least, no hand had stopped them. It would not have been easy to stop them, Frederica thought; for her courage rose to the occasion the moment she felt the touch of her little brother’s hand. It was a happy thing that no one tried. Dixen rubbed his eyes as they passed him without a word, but he lost not a moment in following them. After they had crossed a good many streets, they paused, and he overtook them.“Where shall we go? Not home. To Mrs Brandon’s? Yes. And you must go home and tell Selina. Go quickly, Dixen, before you are missed.”In her haste she had not noticed the way she was taking. The streets were not familiar to her and as she hurried on, hardly daring to speak to her brother, or even to look at him, she became bewildered and anxious, and her courage failed a little.“I am afraid Caroline will think I have been foolish. And they will be sure to look in her house, as they will not find him at home. Oh! if I only had a safe place in which to hide him for a few days!”She thought of Mr St. Cyr’s house. But then she was not sure that their old friend had remained true to them. And besides, he was ill, and Father Jerome was often there, and the house was no place for Hubert.“A safe place,” repeated she, and then there came into her mind the thought of Mistress Campbell and her garret, where there never entered a creature, but Eppie herself. Without a moment’s hesitation, she turned her steps in the direction of Mrs Glencairn’s house.“Hubert dear,” said she coaxingly, “you will be very good, won’t you, and stay with Mistress Campbell till I know what I ought to do. No one will think of looking for you there.”“But are we not going home? Why should we not go home?” demanded Hubert.“It is quite impossible to-night,” said Fred firmly. “Father Jerome would have you back at school again this very night. You cannot go home.”“Father Jerome? What has he to do with it? I don’t know what you mean, Fred.”“Was it not he who took you there, when he should have taken you back to your former school again?”No, Hubert thought not. He did not remember very well about it. But Father Jerome had nothing to do with their going to school. But Frederica had her doubts about it all the same, and hurried on.“But we cannot go home, because mama is not there, nor papa. But Madame is there, and you may be sure she would not let you even stay one night, but send you back at once, and they would be sure to punish you for coming without leave.”“It is you they ought to punish, Fred, I think,” said Hubert.“Ah! wouldn’t they. If they could! And tell me about about Charlie. Where was he?”“But Hubert knew very little about his brother. They very seldom saw each other. They were not in the same class.”“And are they good to you? Are you glad to come away?”It was not so, bad as it might be. Still, Hubert was very glad to get away. Some of the boys were not nice, and they had queer ways there. But of his life there he had no complaint to make. In the midst of his talk they reached Mrs Glencairn’s house. They went round to the door at the wing at which the pupils entered. They stumbled over a scrubbing-brush and a pail of water at the open door, but they saw no one; and went up till they reached the attic unseen.“Where are we going?” said Hubert, holding fast his sister’s hand in the dimness, of the little passage. “Into the spider’s parlour, I think.”“By no means,” said Frederica, as she knocked. “We are going to see Mistress Campbell; who used to be so good to Tessie and me when we were at school. And you must not look surprised at anything you may see. And, Hubert dear, you will be a good boy, won’t you?”“Oh, yes, of course. Why should I not be good?” said Hubert impatiently.“Eh, Missy! is this you?” exclaimed the old woman, holding up her hands in astonishment. “And this is your wee brother?—a bonny laddie, but—”Mistress Campbell could not finish her sentence; for, excited and tired beyond her strength, Frederica burst into tears.“My bairn! what is it?” said Eppie. “To think of my folly in speiring that I after all that has come to you and yours, since we saw you here. But, my dear, you have no cause to grieve—for your mama—”Frederica put up her hand to stop her.“No—I am glad for mama—but—I am frightened—and tired.”“Sit down and rest you, my bairn,” said her old friend tenderly. “Go away yonder to your window, and I’ll make acquaintance with your brother here—a fine lad he is.”Hubert, though a little startled at the sight of Frederica’s tears, had never taken his eyes from the small brown wrinkled face of the old woman, and he met her look with an undisguised curiosity and wonder that amused her.“Your wee brother, did I say? No, this must be the elder of the two—and a fine well-grown lad he is,” said Mistress Campbell admiringly.“No, Charlie is bigger than I am,” said Hubert gravely.“Dear me! I ay thought Miss Frederica’s brothers were but wee boys; but you have had time to grow, it’s true, since I have been in the way of hearing about you. You’re near hand as big as Miss Frederica herself.”This was not saying very much, but it won the good-will of Hubert, whether she meant it to do so or not. And some interesting confidences followed on his part, in the midst of which his sister found him, when she recovered herself.“And you’ll bide to your tea with me,” said Mistress Campbell. “I’m sore failed since you were here, Miss Frederica, but I am not altogether helpless yet. So you’ll bide still a wee while.”But Frederica was not sure that they ought to stay.“First, I must tell you why we came,” said she.She told the story hurriedly, and it was doubtful whether Mrs Campbell followed her closely through it all. She understood, however, that Miss Tessie had been “spirited away,” as she called it, and that from some dread mysterious fate Frederica had courageously rescued her little brother, and that in some way she was relied on for help.“But I thought the days for such things were long past, and that they only whiles happen in books,” said he wondering. “But dear! dear! What is the like o’ me to ken about what is going on in the world? And one has but to look out, first at one window and then another, at the great buildings that are rising up on every hand, to be sure that the ‘scarlet woman’ has this for a favoured abiding-place. And I doubt she’s no’ much changed since the old days, though her hands are a wee tied. And you rescued your brother, did you? ’Deed you’re a brave lassie.”But Hubert had no idea of being looked on as rescued.“If I had known you cared about it, Fred, I could have run away any time—I could have done it quite easily.”“I’m no’ just so sure o’ that,” said Mistress Campbell gravely. “If these long-coated gentry had a motive for keeping you, they wouldna have let you go, or they would have had you back again.”“Yes, and no one must know where he is,” said Frederica anxiously. “I could think of no other safe place to bring him to. And, Hubert dear, if Mistress Campbell will have you, you will stay here quietly till I can see Caroline and Mr Brandon, or till papa comes home.”“There has nothing happened to your papa, has there? They’re bold, these folk, or they’re sure o’ their ground,” said Mistress Campbell gravely.“Dixen said that about papa. But we have had no more news. We had no letter last mail.”“Oh well! No news is good news, they say; and it’s utter nonsense to think that anything can really happen to harm you in a Christian country like this.”“And in the Queen’s dominions, as Dixen said,” echoed Frederica hopefully.“And I’ll keep the laddie safe, though the whole Inquisition were after him. That’s no’ just the name they get here, I daresay; but I’ll keep the laddie, if he’ll bide.”“You cannot go home, Hubert dear; for Madame Precoe is there, and Father Jerome; and though he is so smooth and pleasant, I do not trust him; and, indeed, I don’t know what to do. Will you stay, dear Hubert?”“Oh, yes, I’ll stay, if you make a point of it. But there is no danger for me,” said Hubert loftily.“Did you like staying at the school, my lad? Were they good to you?”“At first I did not like it. Oh, yes, they were kind enough. They’re a rough lot, however, and I would not like to go back, since Fred objects to it.”The door opened, and Frederica uttered a cry. It was only Miss Robina, however, not one of the servants, as she had feared. Of course there were more exclamations, and the story was told again, but the part dwelt on now was the taking away of Tessie from Mrs Glencairn’s, and sending her to the convent, without even telling her sisters.“We did not know it till this morning, and I was angry and frightened. We could have done nothing, even if we had known. There is no one but Mr Brandon who has a right to say anything, and he does not like to interfere with Mr St. Cyr. But I think that has been done by Mr Jerome and Madame Precoe, and not Mr St. Cyr. I should be in despair if I thought Mr St. Cyr had turned against us.”“Have they heard that Mr Vane is worse?” asked Miss Robina anxiously.Frederica turned pale: “They all ask that. Dear Miss Robina, do you think he is really worse. What must we then do?”“My darling, don’t be troubled. No harm can really come to you. It is not to be believed. Have you seen Mr St. Cyr? He is a man of high character. He will do nothing wrong—nothing unlawful, surely.”“He has been ill. They thought him dying. I have not seen him for a long time. Oh! if papa would only come home! No, I am not going to cry. But I am tired, and—yes—I am afraid.”“When had you your dinner?” asked Mistress Campbell gravely. Frederica laughed.“I don’t know; I don’t think I had any.”“And no wonder you are faint-hearted. Just you lie down and rest you, and you will be another creature when you get your tea.”But Frederica was too excited and anxious to rest. She enjoyed her tea, however, and so did Hubert. He had evidently not been used to dainty fare of late, and he yielded to Mistress Campbell’s entreaties to eat, with entire willingness and enjoyment Fred found her strength and courage renewed when she rose to go. “I will come again soon, if I am not carried away too,” said she laughing.“My dear, it is no laughing matter,” said Mistress Campbell gravely. “May the Lord preserve you all?”“He will, Selina says. She is not afraid. Selina is better than I am,” said Fred humbly.“But then it’s no’ our deserts we are to lippen to. You’ll be cared for, never fear. He’ll give His angels charge, and He’ll no’ leave it altogether to them either. He’ll raise some one up to take the orphan’s part.”Miss Robina promised to come and see her soon, and bring her tidings of Hubert, who was already so sound asleep, that he could not be awakened to say good-bye; and somewhat reassured and comforted, Frederica went away.But how lonely and friendless she felt, as she went down the familiar street! By some association, which it would not have been easy to trace, there came back to her the remembrance of their unexpected holiday at Easter. Oh, how long it seemed, since these two happy children had gone dancing down the street! How light-hearted they had been! how fearless of all possible evil!At the corner of the street down which she and Tessie had run to avoid the chance of meeting Mrs Ascot, she paused a moment. Could it be possible that their old friend who had been so kind to them that day, should have turned against them? She remembered how he had walked on with them, and the promise he had made to help her if ever she were in trouble.“And he did help me ever so many times. I cannot believe that he knows all that is making us unhappy and afraid. I will go and see him now.”In a minute she was standing on the steps that went down to the wide door of the house. It was not open as she had found it once before, when she came to him with her troubles. But when it opened at the sound of the bell, she gave the servant no time to say as usual, that her master could see no one; but passing her softly and quickly, sprang upstairs like a bird. It was still quite light out of doors, but the passage was dark, and so was the room into which she went. There was a fire in the grate, however; and before she saw Mr St. Cyr, she saw his shadow on the wall, and paused a moment to get breath. Then as she heard a footstep at the door, she came forward. Mr St. Cyr must have been asleep, she thought, for at first he looked at her in a wondering way, as though he did not know her, and she therefore hastened to speak.“Are you better, Cousin Cyprien?”“It is not Theresa—is it?” said he, with little pauses between the words, as though he did not find it easy to utter them.“Not Theresa, but Fred. Are you better, cousin?”“Ah! my little cousin—who comes to me—in her trouble—but who does not come to me in mine.”“I have been here often, but you were too ill to see me, they said always. Are you better now?”“Yes—I am better, I think. Once they told me—I was dying—” He paused.“And were you afraid, Cousin Cyprien?” said Frederica, looking with awe into his changed face.“Was it fear that I felt? There was fear, and a thrill of something that was not fear. Now—I said—I shall know the mystery of death—and the beyond.”“Cousin, mania was not afraid. Even at the last, when death was very near, she was not afraid, because—”In her earnestness she had knelt down beside the old man; and now, as her voice failed, she laid her face down on his knee. His trembling right hand was laid on her head.“So—she has gone! She has solved the mystery.”“Did you not know, Cousin Cyprien? Did not Mr Jerome tell you? He feared to grieve you.”“Doubtless—it was for that or for some other good reason. I am glad I did not die.”“But mama was not afraid, after she knew how Jesus loved us and came to die for us.”“Tell me of your mother, and the end.”“She was not afraid,” repeated Frederica. “Miss Agnace was afraid for her, and Mr Jerome and Sister Magdalen came often, and told her many things she ought to do. But she was never afraid, after the old man told us how ‘the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin.’ It is in the Bible, you know, and God taught her, I think God and Selina. And it is for us all—the blood of Jesus—for those who think as Miss Agnace does, and you, and all of us. Selina will tell you. May I bring Selina, Mr St. Cyr?”“Tell me about your mother,” said he.Frederica told him about how afraid her mother had been, and how she longed to know the way to heaven. And then she told how she had brought the old man in from the storm, never thinking what wonderful things he was to tell them, and how after that her mother was at rest. She told him how she had grown weaker, so slowly that they could see no change in her from day to day, and how calm and peaceful she was through all the time.“Not even the thought of leaving us alone, when we feared papa was dying, made her unhappy; for she said, ‘God will take care of my children, against all who would do them harm.’ And so He will,” added Frederica earnestly; and as she raised her eyes, they fell on the face of Mr Jerome, standing in the shadow of the door. She rose hastily.“Must you go? Sit by me for a little while,” said her old friend.The door closed softly, shutting out the priest, as she believed, and Frederica sat down at the old man’s feet again.“Does the time seem long, Cousin Cyprien?” asked she.“It seemed long in passing, but to look back on, it seems like a blank. I must get strong again. Is your father dead too?”“Papa! Oh, no! He was better when we heard last, but it is a long time now. You have not heard that papa is worse?”“I have heard nothing, and I can do nothing. Why have you come to-day? Is it because of some new unhappiness? Madame Ascot is with you, I hear. Are you unhappy, my child?”Frederica paused a moment before she answered.“Mama is gone, and papa, and sometimes we are afraid. But I did not come because of Madame. I thought that you had forgotten us, and I came to see. I am not afraid now that you are getting well.”“Ah! we will trust so. And have you nothing to tell me?—no trouble to be helped through?”“No,” said Frederica thoughtfully. “I will wait till you are quite well again, and then I will tell you all. And will you tell Babette that we may come upstairs—Selina and I? I may bring Selina, may I not?”“By all means, and I will warn Babette, you may be sure. Must you go how?”“It is growing dark, I think. Yes, I must go. So good night, Cousin Cyprien.”“Are you alone? My child, it is not well for you to be alone in the street at this hour.”“It was not dark when I came. It is only a little way. I am not afraid.”“Well, be sure and come again. Good night, my child.”“I will see Miss Vane safely home, I have something to say to her,” said a voice from the darkness. Frederica with great difficulty suppressed a cry as Mr Jerome stepped forward.“Is it you, my brother? Ah, well, she need not be in haste, though it is growing dark. You will see her safely home.”But Frederica bent hastily over Mr St. Cyr’s hand.“Good night, Cousin Cyprien. I do not fear the dark,” said she; “but I do fear Mr Jerome,” added she, in an undertone, as she sprang out of the room and down the stairs. She sped along the street like one pursued by an enemy. But Mr Jerome did not follow her across the threshold. He lingered a moment, looking out after her, and then went up through the darkness to his brother’s room.“And so Theresa St. Hubert is gone!” said Mr St. Cyr, as he entered the room, which was no longer dark.“Yes,” said his brother; “she is gone, and so is her husband.”“Dead! His daughter does not know.”“No. Why tell her sooner than needful? He, at least, is no loss to his children.”“And yet they loved him, and they ought to know.”“They will be told when the right time comes.”“There will be much to do. There are many documents relating to their affairs that must be looked over and arranged, and I have still so little strength.”“My strength is yours in their cause;” said Mr Jerome.“Brother,” said Mr St. Cyr, “why did you not tell me of poor Theresa’s death?”“Did I not tell you? Did not Sister Agnace? You were too ill at that time to be told, I suppose. Or you have forgotten. Your memory fails you at times, I fear, my brother.”“It may be,” said Mr St. Cyr, after a moment’s thought. “And yet I think I should not have forgotten this.”“There is no time to be lost in the settlement of their affairs, you must see,” said Jerome.“No, certainly.”“There must be guardians appointed.”“They are appointed.”“In your illness, having to act for them, I examined such papers relating to their affairs as I had access to. I found none having reference to what was to follow the death of their mother. None entire, I mean. Was there not to be some change? some new choice? I found some torn morsels of paper, a cancelled instrument of some sort. It is quite as well. The court will be happier in the selection of guardians than that unhappy woman was.”“There are guardians appointed!” repeated Mr St. Cyr.“You have forgotten. Your illness has impaired your memory. There was to be a change of names. The former appointment was set aside. You yourself must have had some knowledge of it. You have forgotten.”Mr St. Cyr looked at his brother with a strange emotion visible in his face.“My brother, you are not glad of my weakness, are you? Have patience with me. Iamweak.”“That is easily seen. Yes, I will be gentle with you, but I must be faithful too: your weakness shall be helped and shielded by my strength.”“Yes, but not to-night. I am tired to-night,” said Mr St. Cyr, leaning back wearily in his chair.“You shall not be troubled. See, I have thought of the men whose names are written here, and at an early day I shall see the judges as to their legal appointment. And you shall not be troubled. If you are not satisfied with my suggestions, of course you are at liberty to make what change in the names you please.”“But their mother, by my advice, appointed their guardians in the manner prescribed by Mr St. Hubert’s will; and nothing can supersede that appointment, you are aware.”“If any trace of such an instrument is to be found,” said Mr Jerome.“It is to be hoped it is to be found, or it may go badly with some of us,” said Mr St. Cyr gravely.“As to that I cannot say. But the court, under your direction and mine, can do all that is necessary, without reference to documents of doubtful justice.”“The appointment must stand as it is,” said Mr St. Cyr impatiently.“It is time you were retiring, is it not? You seem tired. Shall I help you?”“Thanks, I am not inclined to go yet.”“Still I think you had better go. I shall speak to Babette, shall I not?”There was no reply; and he left the room. Listening intently to his receding footsteps, Mr St. Cyr rose with difficulty, and holding by the furniture, crossed the room to the cabinet in which Frederica, on her first visit, had seen so many beautiful and curious things. From a hidden compartment in one of its sides, he drew forth several papers, and looked eagerly and attentively over them. He had only time to replace them and return to his seat, before his brother came in again.“Your fire is bright in yon chamber. My brother, I entreat you to allow me to assist you thither, before I leave. I cannot divest myself of a feeling of responsibility with regard to that foolish young girl lingering in the street at this unseemly hour. I must see that she is safe at home. And I must hasten.”“Thanks,” said Mr St. Cyr, rising meekly. “You are most kind, but pray do not stay. Babette can do all that is necessary for me. I fancy myself better to-night.”“Better,” repeated his brother, as he went down the stairs. “I do not see it. For the present it is not necessary that you should be better. I can do your work for you, better than you can do it yourself. I have succeeded beyond hope—unless indeed, by some unimaginable chance, there should exist such an instrument as Cyprien asserts. Even then something might be done to put matters right, should I, and not Cyprien, guide them. We shall see.”
Madame Precoe’s care in sending Sister Agnace into the garden because of old Dixen, had been more needed than she supposed, but it came too late to be of use. The old man had been busy near one of the walks as they entered, and he had answered their greeting very briefly. But as he stooped again he said hurriedly,—
“She thinks I am blind, but I can see her and the priest at the window looking out. Go round to the other side behind the hedge, young ladies dear, for I have something to tell you.”
He worked on for a little while after they had disappeared. He worked his way along the walk till he was out of sight of the windows, then coming close to them he said in a whisper, as though he feared to be overheard,—
“I have seen the little lads. Mrs Hearn told me something that made me think they were at the school with her boys. I never let on that it was not all right, and I watched afterwards, and saw them walking with the rest. But they do not always walk, and they are well watched.”
“I knew it was Charlie’s voice,” said Selina.
“Oh! Lena! Oh! Dixen! What shall we do?” said Frederica, clasping her hands.
“Fred love! God will take care of them.” But Selina herself grew pale.
“And is it true that Miss Tessie was sent away to the convent without a word to you two?” went on Dixen. “I’m sore feared that something must have happened to the master, or they would never have dared to do that.”
“But it cannot be that, Dixen. For the boys must have been there a long time. They were never sent back, I suppose,” said Frederica.
“And we have heard nothing from papa for a fortnight,” said Selina.
“It does not look well,” said Dixen. “But, children dear, you are not to fret. The boys are safe enough. No harm can come to them. We are living in the Queen’s dominions, thank God, and evil things can only be done in secret. And, Miss Fred dear, you should go to Mrs Brandon, and tell her about Miss Tessie and the little lads. And somebody that is wise in the law should be told. I would have gone myself, but nobody would heed such a story from the like of me. I am sore feared that no good is meant to you all. And the priests are everywhere, and have the means of making men do their will, that we know nothing of. Only here they must keep things quieter than in some places. But don’t let them smuggle you all off without a word. They will tell you it is your souls they would save, but it is your grandfather’s money they want as well. And here is that soft-spoken nun coming to hear what I may be saying. Be sure you go to your sister this very day.”
In his increasing excitement the old man used some words that are not put down, and he went muttering to himself away.
“Here is Miss Agnace,” said Frederica.
“We must be very quiet, and let her see nothing. Let us walk round the other way to the house,” said Selina.
“And I will go to Caroline. Anything is better than to sit still and think about it,” said Frederica excitedly.
They walked very quietly into the house, and went to their room.
“I will go at once, as Dixen said,” and Frederica’s preparations were soon made.
The room where Madame and the priest were sitting looked back upon the garden, so she got away without being seen. She had gone but a few steps, when she heard Dixen’s voice behind her.
“You are but weakly yet, Miss Frederica,” said he, when she waited for him, “and I will come with you. Just you go on without heeding me. I will keep in sight. Can you walk all the way, think you?”
Frederica was doubtful about it. She was excited, and trembling, hot and cold by turns. She was not very hopeful as to any help she could get from her sister. She was ill, and her husband was cautious, and not easily moved, and above all averse to interfere in matters where his right to do so was not acknowledged.
“And he will say it is Mr St. Cyr that is doing all this—and it is not impossible,” said Frederica, with a new pang of terror. “But I don’t think he would deceive us. I will go to the school myself. I will take them by surprise, and they will not have time to hide them as they must have done before, and I will take them away.”
It was not a very wise idea. Dixen shook his head, but Frederica persisted, and the old man followed her up the street. But before they had gone far they heard the hum of many voices, and the long line of boys came in sight. Frederica turned into a doorway, and waited till they passed, scanning each face eagerly. They were for the most part bigger boys than her brothers. She looked in vain for the face of either of them, and stood gazing blankly after the long line as it passed down the street. The gate stood open, and she went and looked in. The side door stood open also.
“Dixen,” said she hurriedly, “I am going in. They cannot do me any harm, and I may see Charlie, or little Hubert.”
But this seemed a dreadful thing to Dixen.
“Miss Frederica, I cannot think it would be well to go. No one knows what might happen,” said he in distress.
“I am not afraid, Dixen. Yes, I am a little afraid. But I have prayed to God, and so has Selina, and He will take care of me. Wait at the corner; and if I don’t come out in half an hour; you must tell some one, and come for me.”
But she did not keep him half that time. She went slowly up the steps and in at the door. She did not go forward into the wide hall as she had done when they came with Father Jerome, but turned at once, and went up a narrow stair, down which the sound of voices came. Still following the sound, she came to a room where a score or two of little boys were amusing themselves. They did not see her at first, and she stood watching them for a little while. She did not see her brothers, but she called softly several times,—
“Charlie! Hubert! are you here?” And as she spoke, a little hand touched hers, and she turned to meet the wondering eyes of her youngest brother. Without a word, she drew him outside of the room, and along the passage toward the stairs.
“Where is Charlie?” uttered she with difficulty. “No, we must not look for him. I have one safe, and I can come again for Charlie.”
It does not sound possible that this should have happened, but it is perfectly true. The stairs were passed, and the hall, and they ran across the yard, and into the street, and no eye had seen them. At least, no hand had stopped them. It would not have been easy to stop them, Frederica thought; for her courage rose to the occasion the moment she felt the touch of her little brother’s hand. It was a happy thing that no one tried. Dixen rubbed his eyes as they passed him without a word, but he lost not a moment in following them. After they had crossed a good many streets, they paused, and he overtook them.
“Where shall we go? Not home. To Mrs Brandon’s? Yes. And you must go home and tell Selina. Go quickly, Dixen, before you are missed.”
In her haste she had not noticed the way she was taking. The streets were not familiar to her and as she hurried on, hardly daring to speak to her brother, or even to look at him, she became bewildered and anxious, and her courage failed a little.
“I am afraid Caroline will think I have been foolish. And they will be sure to look in her house, as they will not find him at home. Oh! if I only had a safe place in which to hide him for a few days!”
She thought of Mr St. Cyr’s house. But then she was not sure that their old friend had remained true to them. And besides, he was ill, and Father Jerome was often there, and the house was no place for Hubert.
“A safe place,” repeated she, and then there came into her mind the thought of Mistress Campbell and her garret, where there never entered a creature, but Eppie herself. Without a moment’s hesitation, she turned her steps in the direction of Mrs Glencairn’s house.
“Hubert dear,” said she coaxingly, “you will be very good, won’t you, and stay with Mistress Campbell till I know what I ought to do. No one will think of looking for you there.”
“But are we not going home? Why should we not go home?” demanded Hubert.
“It is quite impossible to-night,” said Fred firmly. “Father Jerome would have you back at school again this very night. You cannot go home.”
“Father Jerome? What has he to do with it? I don’t know what you mean, Fred.”
“Was it not he who took you there, when he should have taken you back to your former school again?”
No, Hubert thought not. He did not remember very well about it. But Father Jerome had nothing to do with their going to school. But Frederica had her doubts about it all the same, and hurried on.
“But we cannot go home, because mama is not there, nor papa. But Madame is there, and you may be sure she would not let you even stay one night, but send you back at once, and they would be sure to punish you for coming without leave.”
“It is you they ought to punish, Fred, I think,” said Hubert.
“Ah! wouldn’t they. If they could! And tell me about about Charlie. Where was he?”
“But Hubert knew very little about his brother. They very seldom saw each other. They were not in the same class.”
“And are they good to you? Are you glad to come away?”
It was not so, bad as it might be. Still, Hubert was very glad to get away. Some of the boys were not nice, and they had queer ways there. But of his life there he had no complaint to make. In the midst of his talk they reached Mrs Glencairn’s house. They went round to the door at the wing at which the pupils entered. They stumbled over a scrubbing-brush and a pail of water at the open door, but they saw no one; and went up till they reached the attic unseen.
“Where are we going?” said Hubert, holding fast his sister’s hand in the dimness, of the little passage. “Into the spider’s parlour, I think.”
“By no means,” said Frederica, as she knocked. “We are going to see Mistress Campbell; who used to be so good to Tessie and me when we were at school. And you must not look surprised at anything you may see. And, Hubert dear, you will be a good boy, won’t you?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Why should I not be good?” said Hubert impatiently.
“Eh, Missy! is this you?” exclaimed the old woman, holding up her hands in astonishment. “And this is your wee brother?—a bonny laddie, but—”
Mistress Campbell could not finish her sentence; for, excited and tired beyond her strength, Frederica burst into tears.
“My bairn! what is it?” said Eppie. “To think of my folly in speiring that I after all that has come to you and yours, since we saw you here. But, my dear, you have no cause to grieve—for your mama—”
Frederica put up her hand to stop her.
“No—I am glad for mama—but—I am frightened—and tired.”
“Sit down and rest you, my bairn,” said her old friend tenderly. “Go away yonder to your window, and I’ll make acquaintance with your brother here—a fine lad he is.”
Hubert, though a little startled at the sight of Frederica’s tears, had never taken his eyes from the small brown wrinkled face of the old woman, and he met her look with an undisguised curiosity and wonder that amused her.
“Your wee brother, did I say? No, this must be the elder of the two—and a fine well-grown lad he is,” said Mistress Campbell admiringly.
“No, Charlie is bigger than I am,” said Hubert gravely.
“Dear me! I ay thought Miss Frederica’s brothers were but wee boys; but you have had time to grow, it’s true, since I have been in the way of hearing about you. You’re near hand as big as Miss Frederica herself.”
This was not saying very much, but it won the good-will of Hubert, whether she meant it to do so or not. And some interesting confidences followed on his part, in the midst of which his sister found him, when she recovered herself.
“And you’ll bide to your tea with me,” said Mistress Campbell. “I’m sore failed since you were here, Miss Frederica, but I am not altogether helpless yet. So you’ll bide still a wee while.”
But Frederica was not sure that they ought to stay.
“First, I must tell you why we came,” said she.
She told the story hurriedly, and it was doubtful whether Mrs Campbell followed her closely through it all. She understood, however, that Miss Tessie had been “spirited away,” as she called it, and that from some dread mysterious fate Frederica had courageously rescued her little brother, and that in some way she was relied on for help.
“But I thought the days for such things were long past, and that they only whiles happen in books,” said he wondering. “But dear! dear! What is the like o’ me to ken about what is going on in the world? And one has but to look out, first at one window and then another, at the great buildings that are rising up on every hand, to be sure that the ‘scarlet woman’ has this for a favoured abiding-place. And I doubt she’s no’ much changed since the old days, though her hands are a wee tied. And you rescued your brother, did you? ’Deed you’re a brave lassie.”
But Hubert had no idea of being looked on as rescued.
“If I had known you cared about it, Fred, I could have run away any time—I could have done it quite easily.”
“I’m no’ just so sure o’ that,” said Mistress Campbell gravely. “If these long-coated gentry had a motive for keeping you, they wouldna have let you go, or they would have had you back again.”
“Yes, and no one must know where he is,” said Frederica anxiously. “I could think of no other safe place to bring him to. And, Hubert dear, if Mistress Campbell will have you, you will stay here quietly till I can see Caroline and Mr Brandon, or till papa comes home.”
“There has nothing happened to your papa, has there? They’re bold, these folk, or they’re sure o’ their ground,” said Mistress Campbell gravely.
“Dixen said that about papa. But we have had no more news. We had no letter last mail.”
“Oh well! No news is good news, they say; and it’s utter nonsense to think that anything can really happen to harm you in a Christian country like this.”
“And in the Queen’s dominions, as Dixen said,” echoed Frederica hopefully.
“And I’ll keep the laddie safe, though the whole Inquisition were after him. That’s no’ just the name they get here, I daresay; but I’ll keep the laddie, if he’ll bide.”
“You cannot go home, Hubert dear; for Madame Precoe is there, and Father Jerome; and though he is so smooth and pleasant, I do not trust him; and, indeed, I don’t know what to do. Will you stay, dear Hubert?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll stay, if you make a point of it. But there is no danger for me,” said Hubert loftily.
“Did you like staying at the school, my lad? Were they good to you?”
“At first I did not like it. Oh, yes, they were kind enough. They’re a rough lot, however, and I would not like to go back, since Fred objects to it.”
The door opened, and Frederica uttered a cry. It was only Miss Robina, however, not one of the servants, as she had feared. Of course there were more exclamations, and the story was told again, but the part dwelt on now was the taking away of Tessie from Mrs Glencairn’s, and sending her to the convent, without even telling her sisters.
“We did not know it till this morning, and I was angry and frightened. We could have done nothing, even if we had known. There is no one but Mr Brandon who has a right to say anything, and he does not like to interfere with Mr St. Cyr. But I think that has been done by Mr Jerome and Madame Precoe, and not Mr St. Cyr. I should be in despair if I thought Mr St. Cyr had turned against us.”
“Have they heard that Mr Vane is worse?” asked Miss Robina anxiously.
Frederica turned pale: “They all ask that. Dear Miss Robina, do you think he is really worse. What must we then do?”
“My darling, don’t be troubled. No harm can really come to you. It is not to be believed. Have you seen Mr St. Cyr? He is a man of high character. He will do nothing wrong—nothing unlawful, surely.”
“He has been ill. They thought him dying. I have not seen him for a long time. Oh! if papa would only come home! No, I am not going to cry. But I am tired, and—yes—I am afraid.”
“When had you your dinner?” asked Mistress Campbell gravely. Frederica laughed.
“I don’t know; I don’t think I had any.”
“And no wonder you are faint-hearted. Just you lie down and rest you, and you will be another creature when you get your tea.”
But Frederica was too excited and anxious to rest. She enjoyed her tea, however, and so did Hubert. He had evidently not been used to dainty fare of late, and he yielded to Mistress Campbell’s entreaties to eat, with entire willingness and enjoyment Fred found her strength and courage renewed when she rose to go. “I will come again soon, if I am not carried away too,” said she laughing.
“My dear, it is no laughing matter,” said Mistress Campbell gravely. “May the Lord preserve you all?”
“He will, Selina says. She is not afraid. Selina is better than I am,” said Fred humbly.
“But then it’s no’ our deserts we are to lippen to. You’ll be cared for, never fear. He’ll give His angels charge, and He’ll no’ leave it altogether to them either. He’ll raise some one up to take the orphan’s part.”
Miss Robina promised to come and see her soon, and bring her tidings of Hubert, who was already so sound asleep, that he could not be awakened to say good-bye; and somewhat reassured and comforted, Frederica went away.
But how lonely and friendless she felt, as she went down the familiar street! By some association, which it would not have been easy to trace, there came back to her the remembrance of their unexpected holiday at Easter. Oh, how long it seemed, since these two happy children had gone dancing down the street! How light-hearted they had been! how fearless of all possible evil!
At the corner of the street down which she and Tessie had run to avoid the chance of meeting Mrs Ascot, she paused a moment. Could it be possible that their old friend who had been so kind to them that day, should have turned against them? She remembered how he had walked on with them, and the promise he had made to help her if ever she were in trouble.
“And he did help me ever so many times. I cannot believe that he knows all that is making us unhappy and afraid. I will go and see him now.”
In a minute she was standing on the steps that went down to the wide door of the house. It was not open as she had found it once before, when she came to him with her troubles. But when it opened at the sound of the bell, she gave the servant no time to say as usual, that her master could see no one; but passing her softly and quickly, sprang upstairs like a bird. It was still quite light out of doors, but the passage was dark, and so was the room into which she went. There was a fire in the grate, however; and before she saw Mr St. Cyr, she saw his shadow on the wall, and paused a moment to get breath. Then as she heard a footstep at the door, she came forward. Mr St. Cyr must have been asleep, she thought, for at first he looked at her in a wondering way, as though he did not know her, and she therefore hastened to speak.
“Are you better, Cousin Cyprien?”
“It is not Theresa—is it?” said he, with little pauses between the words, as though he did not find it easy to utter them.
“Not Theresa, but Fred. Are you better, cousin?”
“Ah! my little cousin—who comes to me—in her trouble—but who does not come to me in mine.”
“I have been here often, but you were too ill to see me, they said always. Are you better now?”
“Yes—I am better, I think. Once they told me—I was dying—” He paused.
“And were you afraid, Cousin Cyprien?” said Frederica, looking with awe into his changed face.
“Was it fear that I felt? There was fear, and a thrill of something that was not fear. Now—I said—I shall know the mystery of death—and the beyond.”
“Cousin, mania was not afraid. Even at the last, when death was very near, she was not afraid, because—”
In her earnestness she had knelt down beside the old man; and now, as her voice failed, she laid her face down on his knee. His trembling right hand was laid on her head.
“So—she has gone! She has solved the mystery.”
“Did you not know, Cousin Cyprien? Did not Mr Jerome tell you? He feared to grieve you.”
“Doubtless—it was for that or for some other good reason. I am glad I did not die.”
“But mama was not afraid, after she knew how Jesus loved us and came to die for us.”
“Tell me of your mother, and the end.”
“She was not afraid,” repeated Frederica. “Miss Agnace was afraid for her, and Mr Jerome and Sister Magdalen came often, and told her many things she ought to do. But she was never afraid, after the old man told us how ‘the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin.’ It is in the Bible, you know, and God taught her, I think God and Selina. And it is for us all—the blood of Jesus—for those who think as Miss Agnace does, and you, and all of us. Selina will tell you. May I bring Selina, Mr St. Cyr?”
“Tell me about your mother,” said he.
Frederica told him about how afraid her mother had been, and how she longed to know the way to heaven. And then she told how she had brought the old man in from the storm, never thinking what wonderful things he was to tell them, and how after that her mother was at rest. She told him how she had grown weaker, so slowly that they could see no change in her from day to day, and how calm and peaceful she was through all the time.
“Not even the thought of leaving us alone, when we feared papa was dying, made her unhappy; for she said, ‘God will take care of my children, against all who would do them harm.’ And so He will,” added Frederica earnestly; and as she raised her eyes, they fell on the face of Mr Jerome, standing in the shadow of the door. She rose hastily.
“Must you go? Sit by me for a little while,” said her old friend.
The door closed softly, shutting out the priest, as she believed, and Frederica sat down at the old man’s feet again.
“Does the time seem long, Cousin Cyprien?” asked she.
“It seemed long in passing, but to look back on, it seems like a blank. I must get strong again. Is your father dead too?”
“Papa! Oh, no! He was better when we heard last, but it is a long time now. You have not heard that papa is worse?”
“I have heard nothing, and I can do nothing. Why have you come to-day? Is it because of some new unhappiness? Madame Ascot is with you, I hear. Are you unhappy, my child?”
Frederica paused a moment before she answered.
“Mama is gone, and papa, and sometimes we are afraid. But I did not come because of Madame. I thought that you had forgotten us, and I came to see. I am not afraid now that you are getting well.”
“Ah! we will trust so. And have you nothing to tell me?—no trouble to be helped through?”
“No,” said Frederica thoughtfully. “I will wait till you are quite well again, and then I will tell you all. And will you tell Babette that we may come upstairs—Selina and I? I may bring Selina, may I not?”
“By all means, and I will warn Babette, you may be sure. Must you go how?”
“It is growing dark, I think. Yes, I must go. So good night, Cousin Cyprien.”
“Are you alone? My child, it is not well for you to be alone in the street at this hour.”
“It was not dark when I came. It is only a little way. I am not afraid.”
“Well, be sure and come again. Good night, my child.”
“I will see Miss Vane safely home, I have something to say to her,” said a voice from the darkness. Frederica with great difficulty suppressed a cry as Mr Jerome stepped forward.
“Is it you, my brother? Ah, well, she need not be in haste, though it is growing dark. You will see her safely home.”
But Frederica bent hastily over Mr St. Cyr’s hand.
“Good night, Cousin Cyprien. I do not fear the dark,” said she; “but I do fear Mr Jerome,” added she, in an undertone, as she sprang out of the room and down the stairs. She sped along the street like one pursued by an enemy. But Mr Jerome did not follow her across the threshold. He lingered a moment, looking out after her, and then went up through the darkness to his brother’s room.
“And so Theresa St. Hubert is gone!” said Mr St. Cyr, as he entered the room, which was no longer dark.
“Yes,” said his brother; “she is gone, and so is her husband.”
“Dead! His daughter does not know.”
“No. Why tell her sooner than needful? He, at least, is no loss to his children.”
“And yet they loved him, and they ought to know.”
“They will be told when the right time comes.”
“There will be much to do. There are many documents relating to their affairs that must be looked over and arranged, and I have still so little strength.”
“My strength is yours in their cause;” said Mr Jerome.
“Brother,” said Mr St. Cyr, “why did you not tell me of poor Theresa’s death?”
“Did I not tell you? Did not Sister Agnace? You were too ill at that time to be told, I suppose. Or you have forgotten. Your memory fails you at times, I fear, my brother.”
“It may be,” said Mr St. Cyr, after a moment’s thought. “And yet I think I should not have forgotten this.”
“There is no time to be lost in the settlement of their affairs, you must see,” said Jerome.
“No, certainly.”
“There must be guardians appointed.”
“They are appointed.”
“In your illness, having to act for them, I examined such papers relating to their affairs as I had access to. I found none having reference to what was to follow the death of their mother. None entire, I mean. Was there not to be some change? some new choice? I found some torn morsels of paper, a cancelled instrument of some sort. It is quite as well. The court will be happier in the selection of guardians than that unhappy woman was.”
“There are guardians appointed!” repeated Mr St. Cyr.
“You have forgotten. Your illness has impaired your memory. There was to be a change of names. The former appointment was set aside. You yourself must have had some knowledge of it. You have forgotten.”
Mr St. Cyr looked at his brother with a strange emotion visible in his face.
“My brother, you are not glad of my weakness, are you? Have patience with me. Iamweak.”
“That is easily seen. Yes, I will be gentle with you, but I must be faithful too: your weakness shall be helped and shielded by my strength.”
“Yes, but not to-night. I am tired to-night,” said Mr St. Cyr, leaning back wearily in his chair.
“You shall not be troubled. See, I have thought of the men whose names are written here, and at an early day I shall see the judges as to their legal appointment. And you shall not be troubled. If you are not satisfied with my suggestions, of course you are at liberty to make what change in the names you please.”
“But their mother, by my advice, appointed their guardians in the manner prescribed by Mr St. Hubert’s will; and nothing can supersede that appointment, you are aware.”
“If any trace of such an instrument is to be found,” said Mr Jerome.
“It is to be hoped it is to be found, or it may go badly with some of us,” said Mr St. Cyr gravely.
“As to that I cannot say. But the court, under your direction and mine, can do all that is necessary, without reference to documents of doubtful justice.”
“The appointment must stand as it is,” said Mr St. Cyr impatiently.
“It is time you were retiring, is it not? You seem tired. Shall I help you?”
“Thanks, I am not inclined to go yet.”
“Still I think you had better go. I shall speak to Babette, shall I not?”
There was no reply; and he left the room. Listening intently to his receding footsteps, Mr St. Cyr rose with difficulty, and holding by the furniture, crossed the room to the cabinet in which Frederica, on her first visit, had seen so many beautiful and curious things. From a hidden compartment in one of its sides, he drew forth several papers, and looked eagerly and attentively over them. He had only time to replace them and return to his seat, before his brother came in again.
“Your fire is bright in yon chamber. My brother, I entreat you to allow me to assist you thither, before I leave. I cannot divest myself of a feeling of responsibility with regard to that foolish young girl lingering in the street at this unseemly hour. I must see that she is safe at home. And I must hasten.”
“Thanks,” said Mr St. Cyr, rising meekly. “You are most kind, but pray do not stay. Babette can do all that is necessary for me. I fancy myself better to-night.”
“Better,” repeated his brother, as he went down the stairs. “I do not see it. For the present it is not necessary that you should be better. I can do your work for you, better than you can do it yourself. I have succeeded beyond hope—unless indeed, by some unimaginable chance, there should exist such an instrument as Cyprien asserts. Even then something might be done to put matters right, should I, and not Cyprien, guide them. We shall see.”