Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Thirteen.September was not a pleasant month this year. There were not the usual clear, bright days, all the lovelier and more enjoyable that the frost in the morning air, and a tinge of brilliant colour here and there among the trees, gave warning that there could not be many more of them in the season. They were hot, oppressive days. The air was close, and the sky was hidden by a thick haze, which told of the coming of a storm.It was no wonder, the children said, that their mother was worse than usual. Every one felt dull, and languid, and out of sorts. They would all feel better when the rain which had been gathering so many days should come, and it could not be long now. This was what Frederica said to her sister, Mrs Brandon, when she came to see them after her return from the seaside, where she had passed the summer. Mrs Brandon assented, and regretted for baby’s sake that she had returned home so soon. She regretted it for another reason. She did not know how to tell the business that had brought her to them that day. Their father had decided not to return home till spring, and had written to her to say that there would be an opportunity for Fred to travel with a Mrs Bury, who was about to return to England, and he wished her to hasten her preparations. Mrs Brandon was to tell Mrs Vane of the change of plan, and to help Fred in all necessary arrangements.She did not like the task he had assigned her, and she liked it less when she saw the mother and her daughters together. She could not but feel that her father was exposing himself to remark—nay, to just censure—by remaining away so long in the circumstances of his family; and she felt the greatest unwillingness to say a word to Fred about leaving home. But Fred did not even take the matter into consideration. She dismissed the subject with a single word.“I’m not going,” said she quietly. But an angry spot burned on her cheek. She would not say to Mrs Brandon, or even to Selina, that she thought it unkind of their father to ask such a thing—more than unkind to remain longer away. She checked the hasty words of blame that rose to. Tessie’s lips in Caroline’s presence. But she was grieved and vexed too.“I am not going,” said she, “and nobody must tell mama that papa, wished it. He ought to know that—”She stopped suddenly, not sure of her voice.“She has been ill so long,” said Mrs Brandon. “I suppose papa thinks she is as she always has been, now a little better, now worse. He thinks you are over-anxious, and I am afraid he does not understand. What does Dr Gerard say?”“If you were to tell him, Caroline, he might understand,” said Selina. “Will you not write and tell him how we all want him home?”“I will write certainly, and I will also see Mrs Bury. It would make you too unhappy to leave now, though I trust your mother is not really worse.”“Thank you. No, I could not go now. Even Mr St. Cyr is ill, and they have no one but me—” said Fred, speaking with difficulty.“My darling,” said Mrs Brandon, moved to unwonted tenderness by the sight of Frederica’s tears, “you are not to be discouraged. Remember how often your mother has been worse than she is now; and papa will be sure to come when I write and tell him how much you all want him. And, dear, if you break down, what will become of the rest?”“I am not going to break down,” said Fred, swallowing her tears, and trying to smile. “Be sure and bring baby next time, and hasten now, for the rain is near. Good-bye?”She went to the gate, and stood looking after the carriage for a minute or two. Then, instead of going into the house, she walked round the garden several times, telling herself that there was no one but her to care for the rest, and that she must be strong and not discouraged for their sake. But for the moment she was utterly discouraged and afraid.Though it was still early in the afternoon, it had grown very dark, and there was first the silence, and then the low sighing of the wind among the trees, that tells of the near approach of a storm; and the sudden recollection that her little brothers had not returned from their walk hastened Frederica’s footsteps again to the gate. A few large drops of rain fell before she reached it, and as she looked out a cloud of dust and leaves came whirling down the street, and a strong gust of wind made it necessary for her to cling for a moment to the gate, lest she should be thrown down.There was nothing to be seen of her brothers; but, fighting against the wind, and shielding his eyes from the clouds of dust which it bore, came a slender bowed figure that made her forget them. For just a moment she thought it was Mr St. Cyr, but even before he came near, she saw it was not he, but an older man. His hair was snowy white, and he walked with a great effort, bowing his head low to meet the blast. Opposite the gate, a sudden gust nearly overthrew him. He let fall a book which he carried in his hand, and in stooping to recover it his cane slipped from his grasp. Frederica sprang forward to lift it for him; and when she met the sweet, grave smile that thanked her, she quite forgot that the face was the face of a stranger.“Come in,” said she eagerly. “You are not strong enough to meet this terrible wind. And see, the rain has begun to fall already. Come in and rest.”“I shall be glad to rest,” said the stranger; and so, at Frederica’s bidding, there passed over their threshold an angel unawares.The brothers came home with a run and a shout, only in time to escape the rain that soon fell in torrents. In the house it grew as dark as night for a little while, and then the lightning flashed, and the thunder broke over the roof with a peal that seemed to shake the foundations. The servants of the house, awed and anxious, flocked into the hall where the stranger sat, and where the children had gathered. Their mother was there too, trembling and white with nervous terror. For a minute or two the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled continuously, and for a time not a word was spoken. Then that cloud passed, and it grew light.“You are not afraid,” said Hubert, looking up into the face of the stranger.“No,” said he gently, “I have no cause.”“But we are afraid, except Selina,” said the boy, looking round on the terrified faces. “Selina does not see the lightning. But why are not you afraid?”“‘God is our Refuge and Strength, a very present Help in trouble. Therefore shall not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea.’ No, I am not afraid.”“But the lightning might kill you.”“Yes, it might kill me.”“And yet you are not afraid! Why are you not afraid?”“Because I hope—yes, I believe, that when death shall come to me, it will be as God’s messenger, not to hurt, but to take me beyond all reach of hurt for ever and for ever. Truly, my little lad, death is the last thing of which one whom God loves need be afraid.”Another cloud was passing, and Hubert’s face was hidden in his sister’s lap as once more the thunder broke over them. But the worst of the storm was over. There were now longer pauses between the gradually receding peals, and in the silence of one of them Selina asked softly,—“Frederica, who is he that is not afraid of death?”And Frederica answered in the same tone, “One whom God loves, he says.”“And surely He loves us all.”Gradually the storm passed over. The servants went away to their duties, and Miss Agnace took the little boys to change their coats, which she only now discovered were quite wet. The girls helped their mother into her room again, and Tessie opened the window. There were clouds heavy and dark still in the sky, but beyond the clouds there was brightness, and the cool sweet air brought refreshment to them all. The stranger stood on the threshold, regarding with grave, compassionate eyes the group which the mother and daughters made.“Mama,” said Frederica, answering her mother’s look of surprise, “I brought him in because of the rain.”“Who is it?” said Selina eagerly. “Is it he whom God loves, and who has no cause to be afraid of death? Frederica, ask him why he is not afraid. And does not God love us all?”“God is our Father. Truly He loves all His children.”Drawn by his voice, Selina approached, and took in both hers his outstretched hand. Not once in a hundred times did the blind girl seek to get by the sense of touch a knowledge of strangers. But now she gently passed her hand over his, and over his face, and his soft white hair; and then she drew him gently into the room, and over towards her mother’s chair.“Come and tell mama why you are not afraid.”“Because ‘God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ No one need fear death, who has the promise of life everlasting.”“No,” said Selina. “And have you that promise? And is it for us too? for mama, and all of us?”For answer, the old man repeated the text again, “God so loved the world,” and so on to the end.“It is the world He loves; and the promise is to whosoever believeth.”“Do you hear, mama? It says, ‘Whosoever believeth.’ Are you listening, mama?” said Selina eagerly.“My darling, I know not what to believe, or what to do,” said Mrs Vane sadly. “I have never in all my life thought about these things.”“No,” said Selina, turning her eager face towards the stranger. “We have never thought about these things. Could we begin now, do you think? and what must we do?”Frederica and Tessie looked and listened in amazement. It was so unlike Selina to have anything to say to a stranger. Their mother looked as eager as she did, and very anxious; and she said, before the stranger could reply,—“Yes, the children might begin now. As for me, I can do nothing.”“But,” said the old man gently, “it does not saydo, but believe.”“Surely, mama, ‘Whosoever believeth.’ And what are we to believe?”“The text says, ‘Whosoever believeth in Him’.”“Yes—that is Jesus. And what are we to believe?”“All that the Bible says of Him. Have you heard about Him at all, my child?”“Yes. In the New Testament. We believe all that. What is the first, Fred? Oh! I remember: ‘Thou shalt call His name Jesus; for He shall save His people from their sins.’”And Frederica added, “‘And they shall call His name Emmanuel, which is, being interpreted, God with us.’”“We are to believe that He saves His people from their sins,” said Selina. “Does that mean us too? Who are God’s people?”“They who seek to know Him. They who love Him, and do His will. They whom He loves and will save.”There was a pause of some minutes; then Selina said,—“We seek to know Him, and—I love Him. I do not know how to do His will.”“His will is written in His Word, and He Himself will teach you,” said the stranger.Then Tessie broke in flippantly,—“But how are we to know? Some say one thing, and some another. Father Jerome says it is the last thing we should do—to read the Bible for ourselves. And how are we to know?”“But we do read it,” said Frederica. “And there is no use in asking what Mr Jerome St. Cyr would wish us to do.”“But for my part, I think he is quite as likely to be right as those others,” said Tessie. “There are many more who are of his opinion than of ours. And it would be a shocking thing to say that all the crowds of people who go to his church are all wrong.”“Hush, Tessie dear, and listen,” said Selina. “Mama dear, are you very tired? Would you like to hear more?”If Selina could have seen her mother’s face, she would not have asked.“Tell us more!” said she.“Begin at the beginning,” said Fred, and she read, “Now the birth of Jesus Christ was on this wise.”But the beginning was before that, he showed them. The beginning was when, because of sin, man’s need began—when the first promise was given, and God said “that the woman’s seed should bruise the head of the serpent.” He showed them how, the Divine law being broken, Divine justice required satisfaction, and how One had said, “Lo! I come to do Thy will, O God!” He went on from promise to promise, from prophecy to prophecy, showing how all that went before was but a preparation for the coming of Him who was promised, who was “to save His people from their sins.”Much that had been mysterious, even meaningless, in the things which they had read—the sacrifices, the ceremonies, the prophecies—became significant and beautiful as types of Him who was both sacrifice and priest, dying that His people might live. The old man did not use many words, and almost all of them were words with which the reading of the Bible had made them familiar, but they came to them with new meaning and power from his lips.He told them how the ages had been waiting for Him who was called “Wonderful, Counsellor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace;” and how, “when the fulness of the time was come, God sent forth His Son;” how “He bare our griefs, and carried our sorrows; He was wounded for our transgressions, and bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was on Him, and by His stripes we are healed.”He spoke to them of Him as the son of Mary, as the babe in Bethlehem, and yet the Leader and Commander of His people. He reminded them how He lived and suffered; how He spake wonderful words, and did wonderful works; how He pitied, and taught, and healed the people; how He loved them, and how He died for them at last.At last? No, that was not the last. He told them how the grave, that had held in bonds all the generations that had passed away, had no power to hold Him; how He had broken the chains of death, nay, had slain death, and how He had ascended up to heaven, to be still the Priest of His people, and their King. He told them that it was His delight to pardon and receive sinners who came to Him; that He would not only pardon and save from the punishment of sin, but take away the power of sin over the heart; so that instead of loving it, and yielding to it, sin would become hateful to the forgiven child of God, because God hated it. He told them how God kept His people safe in the midst of a world at enmity with Him, and how all things were theirs, because they were Christ’s; and how nothing, “neither life, nor death, nor things present, nor things to come, can separate them from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”He told them that He was preparing a place for those who had loved Him, and that Death—no longer an enemy—was to come as His messenger to take them into His presence, there to dwell for evermore. And most wonderful, all this was God’s free gift. None were too sinful, or weak, or wayward, to be saved by Him, who asked only to be trusted and loved by those to whom He freely offered so much. Wonderful indeed, beyond the power of words to utter.“Mama,” said Selina, touching her mother’s hand, “I think I see it now.”The mother turned her eyes from the radiant face of the blind girl to the face of the stranger again.“Will you trust Him?” asked he gently. “He is able and willing to save.”“May I?” said she eagerly; “I, who can do nothing? I, who have never in all my life thought about these things? Ah! if it were possible!”“Believe it. It is true.”“But is there nothing we must do?” said Frederica doubtfully.“There is nothing you need do to win His love. There is much you can do to prove your love to Him. ‘If ye love me, keep my commandments,’ He said. And ‘we love Him because He first loved us.’”“And is there no good in all that Miss Agnace has told us?” said Tessie. “Indeed, Fred, it is not that I wish to be disagreeable. But Miss Agnace prays to the Virgin and to the saints, and she goes to confession. She says that is the only right way, and you know Miss Agnace is a good woman. And Mr Jerome—”Mrs Vane’s eyes and Frederica’s were turned on the stranger; and Miss Agnace, who had been listening unseen, came forward at the sound of her name. The old man looked gravely from one to the other, and said,—“‘He that believeth on the Son hath life.’ Of Him it is said, ‘Neither is there salvation in any other: for there is no other name given under heaven among men, whereby we can be saved.’ Of Him it is said, that He ‘hath redeemed us not with corruptible things, as silver and gold, but with His precious blood. Who His own self bore our sins in His own body on the tree.’ Of Him it is said, ‘In Whom we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins.’ Truly He is able to save to the uttermost them that come unto Him by faith. They who put their trust in Him need no other saviour. ‘Other foundation can no man lay, than is laid down, which is Jesus Christ.’“This is God’s truth, taught us in His Word. I do not desire to judge those of whom you speak. It is through Christ, once offered for sins, that they too can be saved.”Mrs Vane made a movement to enjoin silence when Miss Agnace would have spoken; and then the stranger, kneeling down, said, “Let us pray;” and Mrs Vane and Selina for the first time heard the pouring out of a good man’s heart to God. What he asked for them need hardly be told: that Christ might reveal Himself to them as one mighty to save; that He might dwell in them by His Spirit, to make them holy and happy, and ready for an entrance into “the inheritance which is incorruptible, and undefiled, and which fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for those who love Him;” that evennow, believing in Him, they might have “joy unspeakable and full of glory.”Every heart went up with his as he prayed. Even Miss Agnace listened and joined in supplication, wondering and moved.“And shall we never see you again?” said Frederica, as he took her mother’s hand to say farewell.“I cannot tell. I am only passing through the town, and but for the storm I should have been already on the way. I shall never forget you.”“I think God sent you to us,” said Selina.Once more the blind girl touched softly his hand, and his face, and his silver hair. Praying, “God bless all beneath this roof,” he went away.But they never forgot him, nor the words he had spoken to them.For Selina after that there was neither doubt nor fear. The way which God has opened for the return of sinners to Himself was clearly revealed to her. She had much to learn yet, with regard to His will and His dealings in providence; but this she knew and declared, “I love Him because He first loved me.”There were for her no anxious questionings, no groping in the dark, after that. Day by day the light grew clearer and brighter to the eyes of her soul, and she saw “wondrous things out of His law.” She was at peace, and with all the power of her loving and gentle nature she set herself to help her mother toward the same peace. There was the daily reading still, and daily also, kneeling by her mother’s bed, Selina asked for the blessing of peace to her mother’s heart. And she did not ask in vain. As the days went on the blessing came—God gave His own answer of peace.Peace with God! That which all those weary years of sickness and solitude this poor soul had needed came to her at last, and all was changed. Her waiting for the end, that was slowly, but surely drawing near, was peaceful, at times it was joyful. Even Miss Agnace saw the change, and thanked God for it. Sister Magdalen saw it, and doubted its reality and its sufficiency. But she was suffered to utter no word of doubt in Mrs Vane’s hearing. Indeed, she hardly wished to do so.“God may have ways of dealing with sinners of which we do not know,” said she, in answer to Miss Agnace’s anxious looks, not knowing what to say.“Yes, truly,” said Miss Agnace to herself, with a sigh of relief and comfort.It had come to her many times of late, that the dying mother’s peace must be from God, even though it had not come to her through the Church or its ministers; but she had hardly dared to believe it possible. She needed Sister Magdalen’s confirming word, and took more comfort from it than Sister Magdalen had meant it to convey.

September was not a pleasant month this year. There were not the usual clear, bright days, all the lovelier and more enjoyable that the frost in the morning air, and a tinge of brilliant colour here and there among the trees, gave warning that there could not be many more of them in the season. They were hot, oppressive days. The air was close, and the sky was hidden by a thick haze, which told of the coming of a storm.

It was no wonder, the children said, that their mother was worse than usual. Every one felt dull, and languid, and out of sorts. They would all feel better when the rain which had been gathering so many days should come, and it could not be long now. This was what Frederica said to her sister, Mrs Brandon, when she came to see them after her return from the seaside, where she had passed the summer. Mrs Brandon assented, and regretted for baby’s sake that she had returned home so soon. She regretted it for another reason. She did not know how to tell the business that had brought her to them that day. Their father had decided not to return home till spring, and had written to her to say that there would be an opportunity for Fred to travel with a Mrs Bury, who was about to return to England, and he wished her to hasten her preparations. Mrs Brandon was to tell Mrs Vane of the change of plan, and to help Fred in all necessary arrangements.

She did not like the task he had assigned her, and she liked it less when she saw the mother and her daughters together. She could not but feel that her father was exposing himself to remark—nay, to just censure—by remaining away so long in the circumstances of his family; and she felt the greatest unwillingness to say a word to Fred about leaving home. But Fred did not even take the matter into consideration. She dismissed the subject with a single word.

“I’m not going,” said she quietly. But an angry spot burned on her cheek. She would not say to Mrs Brandon, or even to Selina, that she thought it unkind of their father to ask such a thing—more than unkind to remain longer away. She checked the hasty words of blame that rose to. Tessie’s lips in Caroline’s presence. But she was grieved and vexed too.

“I am not going,” said she, “and nobody must tell mama that papa, wished it. He ought to know that—”

She stopped suddenly, not sure of her voice.

“She has been ill so long,” said Mrs Brandon. “I suppose papa thinks she is as she always has been, now a little better, now worse. He thinks you are over-anxious, and I am afraid he does not understand. What does Dr Gerard say?”

“If you were to tell him, Caroline, he might understand,” said Selina. “Will you not write and tell him how we all want him home?”

“I will write certainly, and I will also see Mrs Bury. It would make you too unhappy to leave now, though I trust your mother is not really worse.”

“Thank you. No, I could not go now. Even Mr St. Cyr is ill, and they have no one but me—” said Fred, speaking with difficulty.

“My darling,” said Mrs Brandon, moved to unwonted tenderness by the sight of Frederica’s tears, “you are not to be discouraged. Remember how often your mother has been worse than she is now; and papa will be sure to come when I write and tell him how much you all want him. And, dear, if you break down, what will become of the rest?”

“I am not going to break down,” said Fred, swallowing her tears, and trying to smile. “Be sure and bring baby next time, and hasten now, for the rain is near. Good-bye?”

She went to the gate, and stood looking after the carriage for a minute or two. Then, instead of going into the house, she walked round the garden several times, telling herself that there was no one but her to care for the rest, and that she must be strong and not discouraged for their sake. But for the moment she was utterly discouraged and afraid.

Though it was still early in the afternoon, it had grown very dark, and there was first the silence, and then the low sighing of the wind among the trees, that tells of the near approach of a storm; and the sudden recollection that her little brothers had not returned from their walk hastened Frederica’s footsteps again to the gate. A few large drops of rain fell before she reached it, and as she looked out a cloud of dust and leaves came whirling down the street, and a strong gust of wind made it necessary for her to cling for a moment to the gate, lest she should be thrown down.

There was nothing to be seen of her brothers; but, fighting against the wind, and shielding his eyes from the clouds of dust which it bore, came a slender bowed figure that made her forget them. For just a moment she thought it was Mr St. Cyr, but even before he came near, she saw it was not he, but an older man. His hair was snowy white, and he walked with a great effort, bowing his head low to meet the blast. Opposite the gate, a sudden gust nearly overthrew him. He let fall a book which he carried in his hand, and in stooping to recover it his cane slipped from his grasp. Frederica sprang forward to lift it for him; and when she met the sweet, grave smile that thanked her, she quite forgot that the face was the face of a stranger.

“Come in,” said she eagerly. “You are not strong enough to meet this terrible wind. And see, the rain has begun to fall already. Come in and rest.”

“I shall be glad to rest,” said the stranger; and so, at Frederica’s bidding, there passed over their threshold an angel unawares.

The brothers came home with a run and a shout, only in time to escape the rain that soon fell in torrents. In the house it grew as dark as night for a little while, and then the lightning flashed, and the thunder broke over the roof with a peal that seemed to shake the foundations. The servants of the house, awed and anxious, flocked into the hall where the stranger sat, and where the children had gathered. Their mother was there too, trembling and white with nervous terror. For a minute or two the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled continuously, and for a time not a word was spoken. Then that cloud passed, and it grew light.

“You are not afraid,” said Hubert, looking up into the face of the stranger.

“No,” said he gently, “I have no cause.”

“But we are afraid, except Selina,” said the boy, looking round on the terrified faces. “Selina does not see the lightning. But why are not you afraid?”

“‘God is our Refuge and Strength, a very present Help in trouble. Therefore shall not we fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea.’ No, I am not afraid.”

“But the lightning might kill you.”

“Yes, it might kill me.”

“And yet you are not afraid! Why are you not afraid?”

“Because I hope—yes, I believe, that when death shall come to me, it will be as God’s messenger, not to hurt, but to take me beyond all reach of hurt for ever and for ever. Truly, my little lad, death is the last thing of which one whom God loves need be afraid.”

Another cloud was passing, and Hubert’s face was hidden in his sister’s lap as once more the thunder broke over them. But the worst of the storm was over. There were now longer pauses between the gradually receding peals, and in the silence of one of them Selina asked softly,—

“Frederica, who is he that is not afraid of death?”

And Frederica answered in the same tone, “One whom God loves, he says.”

“And surely He loves us all.”

Gradually the storm passed over. The servants went away to their duties, and Miss Agnace took the little boys to change their coats, which she only now discovered were quite wet. The girls helped their mother into her room again, and Tessie opened the window. There were clouds heavy and dark still in the sky, but beyond the clouds there was brightness, and the cool sweet air brought refreshment to them all. The stranger stood on the threshold, regarding with grave, compassionate eyes the group which the mother and daughters made.

“Mama,” said Frederica, answering her mother’s look of surprise, “I brought him in because of the rain.”

“Who is it?” said Selina eagerly. “Is it he whom God loves, and who has no cause to be afraid of death? Frederica, ask him why he is not afraid. And does not God love us all?”

“God is our Father. Truly He loves all His children.”

Drawn by his voice, Selina approached, and took in both hers his outstretched hand. Not once in a hundred times did the blind girl seek to get by the sense of touch a knowledge of strangers. But now she gently passed her hand over his, and over his face, and his soft white hair; and then she drew him gently into the room, and over towards her mother’s chair.

“Come and tell mama why you are not afraid.”

“Because ‘God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.’ No one need fear death, who has the promise of life everlasting.”

“No,” said Selina. “And have you that promise? And is it for us too? for mama, and all of us?”

For answer, the old man repeated the text again, “God so loved the world,” and so on to the end.

“It is the world He loves; and the promise is to whosoever believeth.”

“Do you hear, mama? It says, ‘Whosoever believeth.’ Are you listening, mama?” said Selina eagerly.

“My darling, I know not what to believe, or what to do,” said Mrs Vane sadly. “I have never in all my life thought about these things.”

“No,” said Selina, turning her eager face towards the stranger. “We have never thought about these things. Could we begin now, do you think? and what must we do?”

Frederica and Tessie looked and listened in amazement. It was so unlike Selina to have anything to say to a stranger. Their mother looked as eager as she did, and very anxious; and she said, before the stranger could reply,—

“Yes, the children might begin now. As for me, I can do nothing.”

“But,” said the old man gently, “it does not saydo, but believe.”

“Surely, mama, ‘Whosoever believeth.’ And what are we to believe?”

“The text says, ‘Whosoever believeth in Him’.”

“Yes—that is Jesus. And what are we to believe?”

“All that the Bible says of Him. Have you heard about Him at all, my child?”

“Yes. In the New Testament. We believe all that. What is the first, Fred? Oh! I remember: ‘Thou shalt call His name Jesus; for He shall save His people from their sins.’”

And Frederica added, “‘And they shall call His name Emmanuel, which is, being interpreted, God with us.’”

“We are to believe that He saves His people from their sins,” said Selina. “Does that mean us too? Who are God’s people?”

“They who seek to know Him. They who love Him, and do His will. They whom He loves and will save.”

There was a pause of some minutes; then Selina said,—

“We seek to know Him, and—I love Him. I do not know how to do His will.”

“His will is written in His Word, and He Himself will teach you,” said the stranger.

Then Tessie broke in flippantly,—

“But how are we to know? Some say one thing, and some another. Father Jerome says it is the last thing we should do—to read the Bible for ourselves. And how are we to know?”

“But we do read it,” said Frederica. “And there is no use in asking what Mr Jerome St. Cyr would wish us to do.”

“But for my part, I think he is quite as likely to be right as those others,” said Tessie. “There are many more who are of his opinion than of ours. And it would be a shocking thing to say that all the crowds of people who go to his church are all wrong.”

“Hush, Tessie dear, and listen,” said Selina. “Mama dear, are you very tired? Would you like to hear more?”

If Selina could have seen her mother’s face, she would not have asked.

“Tell us more!” said she.

“Begin at the beginning,” said Fred, and she read, “Now the birth of Jesus Christ was on this wise.”

But the beginning was before that, he showed them. The beginning was when, because of sin, man’s need began—when the first promise was given, and God said “that the woman’s seed should bruise the head of the serpent.” He showed them how, the Divine law being broken, Divine justice required satisfaction, and how One had said, “Lo! I come to do Thy will, O God!” He went on from promise to promise, from prophecy to prophecy, showing how all that went before was but a preparation for the coming of Him who was promised, who was “to save His people from their sins.”

Much that had been mysterious, even meaningless, in the things which they had read—the sacrifices, the ceremonies, the prophecies—became significant and beautiful as types of Him who was both sacrifice and priest, dying that His people might live. The old man did not use many words, and almost all of them were words with which the reading of the Bible had made them familiar, but they came to them with new meaning and power from his lips.

He told them how the ages had been waiting for Him who was called “Wonderful, Counsellor, the mighty God, the everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace;” and how, “when the fulness of the time was come, God sent forth His Son;” how “He bare our griefs, and carried our sorrows; He was wounded for our transgressions, and bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was on Him, and by His stripes we are healed.”

He spoke to them of Him as the son of Mary, as the babe in Bethlehem, and yet the Leader and Commander of His people. He reminded them how He lived and suffered; how He spake wonderful words, and did wonderful works; how He pitied, and taught, and healed the people; how He loved them, and how He died for them at last.

At last? No, that was not the last. He told them how the grave, that had held in bonds all the generations that had passed away, had no power to hold Him; how He had broken the chains of death, nay, had slain death, and how He had ascended up to heaven, to be still the Priest of His people, and their King. He told them that it was His delight to pardon and receive sinners who came to Him; that He would not only pardon and save from the punishment of sin, but take away the power of sin over the heart; so that instead of loving it, and yielding to it, sin would become hateful to the forgiven child of God, because God hated it. He told them how God kept His people safe in the midst of a world at enmity with Him, and how all things were theirs, because they were Christ’s; and how nothing, “neither life, nor death, nor things present, nor things to come, can separate them from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

He told them that He was preparing a place for those who had loved Him, and that Death—no longer an enemy—was to come as His messenger to take them into His presence, there to dwell for evermore. And most wonderful, all this was God’s free gift. None were too sinful, or weak, or wayward, to be saved by Him, who asked only to be trusted and loved by those to whom He freely offered so much. Wonderful indeed, beyond the power of words to utter.

“Mama,” said Selina, touching her mother’s hand, “I think I see it now.”

The mother turned her eyes from the radiant face of the blind girl to the face of the stranger again.

“Will you trust Him?” asked he gently. “He is able and willing to save.”

“May I?” said she eagerly; “I, who can do nothing? I, who have never in all my life thought about these things? Ah! if it were possible!”

“Believe it. It is true.”

“But is there nothing we must do?” said Frederica doubtfully.

“There is nothing you need do to win His love. There is much you can do to prove your love to Him. ‘If ye love me, keep my commandments,’ He said. And ‘we love Him because He first loved us.’”

“And is there no good in all that Miss Agnace has told us?” said Tessie. “Indeed, Fred, it is not that I wish to be disagreeable. But Miss Agnace prays to the Virgin and to the saints, and she goes to confession. She says that is the only right way, and you know Miss Agnace is a good woman. And Mr Jerome—”

Mrs Vane’s eyes and Frederica’s were turned on the stranger; and Miss Agnace, who had been listening unseen, came forward at the sound of her name. The old man looked gravely from one to the other, and said,—

“‘He that believeth on the Son hath life.’ Of Him it is said, ‘Neither is there salvation in any other: for there is no other name given under heaven among men, whereby we can be saved.’ Of Him it is said, that He ‘hath redeemed us not with corruptible things, as silver and gold, but with His precious blood. Who His own self bore our sins in His own body on the tree.’ Of Him it is said, ‘In Whom we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins.’ Truly He is able to save to the uttermost them that come unto Him by faith. They who put their trust in Him need no other saviour. ‘Other foundation can no man lay, than is laid down, which is Jesus Christ.’

“This is God’s truth, taught us in His Word. I do not desire to judge those of whom you speak. It is through Christ, once offered for sins, that they too can be saved.”

Mrs Vane made a movement to enjoin silence when Miss Agnace would have spoken; and then the stranger, kneeling down, said, “Let us pray;” and Mrs Vane and Selina for the first time heard the pouring out of a good man’s heart to God. What he asked for them need hardly be told: that Christ might reveal Himself to them as one mighty to save; that He might dwell in them by His Spirit, to make them holy and happy, and ready for an entrance into “the inheritance which is incorruptible, and undefiled, and which fadeth not away, reserved in heaven for those who love Him;” that evennow, believing in Him, they might have “joy unspeakable and full of glory.”

Every heart went up with his as he prayed. Even Miss Agnace listened and joined in supplication, wondering and moved.

“And shall we never see you again?” said Frederica, as he took her mother’s hand to say farewell.

“I cannot tell. I am only passing through the town, and but for the storm I should have been already on the way. I shall never forget you.”

“I think God sent you to us,” said Selina.

Once more the blind girl touched softly his hand, and his face, and his silver hair. Praying, “God bless all beneath this roof,” he went away.

But they never forgot him, nor the words he had spoken to them.

For Selina after that there was neither doubt nor fear. The way which God has opened for the return of sinners to Himself was clearly revealed to her. She had much to learn yet, with regard to His will and His dealings in providence; but this she knew and declared, “I love Him because He first loved me.”

There were for her no anxious questionings, no groping in the dark, after that. Day by day the light grew clearer and brighter to the eyes of her soul, and she saw “wondrous things out of His law.” She was at peace, and with all the power of her loving and gentle nature she set herself to help her mother toward the same peace. There was the daily reading still, and daily also, kneeling by her mother’s bed, Selina asked for the blessing of peace to her mother’s heart. And she did not ask in vain. As the days went on the blessing came—God gave His own answer of peace.

Peace with God! That which all those weary years of sickness and solitude this poor soul had needed came to her at last, and all was changed. Her waiting for the end, that was slowly, but surely drawing near, was peaceful, at times it was joyful. Even Miss Agnace saw the change, and thanked God for it. Sister Magdalen saw it, and doubted its reality and its sufficiency. But she was suffered to utter no word of doubt in Mrs Vane’s hearing. Indeed, she hardly wished to do so.

“God may have ways of dealing with sinners of which we do not know,” said she, in answer to Miss Agnace’s anxious looks, not knowing what to say.

“Yes, truly,” said Miss Agnace to herself, with a sigh of relief and comfort.

It had come to her many times of late, that the dying mother’s peace must be from God, even though it had not come to her through the Church or its ministers; but she had hardly dared to believe it possible. She needed Sister Magdalen’s confirming word, and took more comfort from it than Sister Magdalen had meant it to convey.

Chapter Fourteen.Frederica was the least happy of them all at this time. They had heard nothing as yet about Mr Vane’s return; and, as must be the case in every household at every changing season, there were many things to be arranged, and some of them required a decision which Frederica was neither old enough nor wise enough to exercise; and she was troubled in various ways. She rejoiced in the new rest and peace that had come to her mother and Selina, and said to herself often, that all the rest mattered little, since it was well with them; but other things sometimes pressed on her heavily.Tessie had grown impatient under the restraint of circumstances, and also under the control which Frederica, not always with the best judgment, sought to exercise over her for her good. She was wilful, and sought the companionship of young people whom her sister did not Know, or of whom she did not approve. Madame Precoe, who as Mrs Ascot had been Tessie’s pet aversion, invited her often; and she liked going there better than to the house of her sister, Mrs Brandon, who did not ask her very often.Her little brothers, too, were getting beyond her control. The lady who had taught them daily for some years, being obliged, for family reasons, to leave them, her place was not found easy to supply, and it was decided that it was best to send them to school. Not to a day-school; that would not have answered in the circumstances. They were sent to a school which Mrs Brandon recommended, and which Frederica had heard her father mention with favour. It was a small private school in the village of T., at some distance from M. But the little lads went willingly enough, eager as children usually are for change, and for a time Frederica was quite at rest about them.All this time she could not avail herself of the doubtful help which the telling of her troubles to Mr St. Cyr would have given her; for he was ill. She went to see him more than once, but they would not let her in, and Mr Jerome’s grave looks and assurances that the sight of her old friend would be no pleasure to her now, filled Frederica with sorrow, and with a dread of what might happen to them all when Mr St. Cyr should be no more.But over the sea there were coming, even then, tidings that made all else seem of little moment to Frederica and them all. One mail brought word that Mr Vane was coming home; but the next brought word that made it doubtful whether he ever would come home again. At the first reading, the tidings of evil seemed scarcely to admit of hope. Still they tried to speak hopefully in their mother’s presence, and none more hopefully than Frederica. But enclosed in the letter of her English brother, telling them of the accident and danger of her father, were a few lines to Frederica written by his own hand, that left little room for hope in her heart.“My darling,” he wrote, “they will have no one but you. I cannot recall the past. You must stand by your mother, and make her understand that I would like Colonel Bentham to be appointed your guardian in my stead. He is an honourable and upright man, and he is about to return to Canada to remain; and I do not think Mr St. Cyr, who knows him well, will object. Do not lose a day after you receive this. If I live, it need make no difference. I trust to you, Frederica, in all things. Lose no time. Oh, if I could only recall the past!”That was all. Not even his name was written after it.“Oh! papa! papa!” sobbed the girl, as she lay alone in the darkness. “Shall I never see you any more? And how shall I ever tell mama?”Mrs Vane was at first only told that an accident had happened to her husband, which would probably delay his return for a little while. He had been thrown from his horse while riding. They could only wait for another mail to hear more, and the first telling alarmed her less than they had feared it might do.One good thing came out of this sad event to Tessie. Startled by Frederica’s giving way so utterly at the news of their father’s danger, and conscience-stricken at the knowledge that she had been disobeying his known wishes all these weeks she at once proposed to return to Mrs Glencairn’s, and all agreed that there was no better thing for her to do. So that anxiety was set at rest.To no one, not even to Mrs Brandon, did Frederica show her father’s letter. Moved by a fear which she could not put in words, she kept secret the commission he had given her, and at the first moment that it was possible for her to do so, took her way to Mr St. Cyr’s house. She had not seen him for a long time. He was not well enough to see any one, she had always been told whenever she had called to enquire for him, and yet she had heard by chance of others who had been allowed to enter his room. Miss Agnace had been there, and Sister Magdalen; and she had heard indirectly of his being able to transact business of importance, and she went determined to see him, if it were possible to do so.She entered the outer door with some one who was going into the office, and went upstairs unquestioned. She opened one door, and then another, and there sat Mr St. Cyr, looking ill and changed certainly, but with his papers about him, not at all as though he were unequal to any work. He greeted her with a pleased exclamation, and then playfully reproached her with having forgotten him in his illness.“But I have been here often, Cousin Cyprien,” said she, eagerly; “and they would not let me come up to you. Did they not tell you? Mr Jerome always said you were too ill to be disturbed. Are you better, Cousin Cyprien?”“Yes, I am better. And did they let you come up now?”“I did not ask. I came up and opened the door. I left Mr Jerome at our house.”“Ah, my dear! I fear your trouble is beyond my power to remove this time. I have heard of your father. Let us hope the accident to him was not so serious as was feared.”“It is very serious, I am afraid. But, Mr St. Cyr, youcanhelp me, and him;” and she offered him her father’s letter.“Is it so bad?” said he, when he had read it, and he said nothing more for a long time.“I have not told mama yet,” said Frederica.“Will you do as papa wishes, Cousin Cyprien? Is it necessary?”“Since he wishes it, the change may be made. It will be better.”“But whoever may be appointed, you will always take care of mama and us all?”“While I live, dear child, yes; so help me God. But I have had a warning, too; and I must leave you in good hands. There is no time to lose.”No time was lost. The proper steps were at once taken, and the necessary papers prepared in the shortest time possible. At some risk to himself, Mr St. Cyr went to Mrs Vane’s house, and the whole affair was arranged to his satisfaction. It was all done during a temporary absence of Mr Jerome from the city, and Mr St. Cyr did not see it necessary to intimate to him that any change had been made in regard to Mrs Vane’s children. But one night Mr Jerome found on the table, among other papers, one which he did not think it beneath him to glance at—a paper properly drawn, and signed, and witnessed, by which Mrs Vane and Mr St. Cyr had appointed three trustees, who were to have the oversight of the property left to Mr St. Hubert’s grandchildren till they should come of age. But it was torn across. It was dated several years back; and seeing it, Mr Jerome said to himself, “There is another to be prepared.”Strangely enough, it never occurred to him that this had been already done. He did not speak to his brother about it; but he kept the matter in his thoughts, and watched the course of events. It was a matter in which he took much interest; and when his brother grew worse, and day after day passed without anything being done or even said with regard to it, he was surprised; but he was not sorry at the delay. He had by this time become convinced that no influence of his could move Mr St. Cyr in the arrangement of the Vanes’ affairs, and he wisely refrained from attempting it. If trustees were not appointed for carrying out the will of Mr St. Hubert in the manner specified by himself, there must still be guardians appointed for the Vane children, should they be left orphans, and it must be done by a power possibly more open to such influence as his, and it would be far better to say no word to remind his brother, but, let things take their course. He brooded over this in his silent way, till something like a plan for changing all the future relations of these children wrought itself out in his mind, and he prepared himself, and, as far as he could venture to do so, endeavoured to prepare others, to act on this plan when the right time should come.The next mail brought no good news from England. Colonel Bentham wrote to Mrs Vane, telling her of her husband’s wishes with regard to their children, and saying that, should she see fit to name him as one of their guardians, he would faithfully fulfil the duties of the trust. This letter, through means of Miss Agnace, Mr Jerome read, and it confirmed him in the opinion that nothing had been done to supply the place of the legal document which had been destroyed.Frederica also received a letter from her sister Cecilia, who had married Colonel Bentham’s son. It was a very kind letter, but over it Frederica shed many tears. It told her how her father longed for them all; and the poor girl blamed herself that she had not obeyed his wish, and gone home with Mrs Bury, so that she might have been with him now. But for the sake of her mother and the rest, Frederica had done well to stay at home.For every day made it more plain to them all that Mrs Vane’s death was near. Sorrowful days they were; but joy mingled with their sorrow; for her peace flowed still and deep.She had never been a person of strong mind, and the training of her early days had not been of a kind to strengthen her mentally or morally. Out of the pain and weariness of these last years there had come no strength, but a great longing for rest, and a fear, vague but horrible, of death, and the unknown future beyond.And so the words of peace, spoken by the old man whom Frederica had brought in for shelter, had come as a message from God to her soul. To the trembling hope of a Saviour which it awakened she clung, as a child in the dark clings to the unseen hand that holds it; and by-and-by, as the light of truth grew clearer to her eyes, she knew the hand she held was the hand of Jesus, strong and tender, with power to hold her safe for ever, and then she was at rest.From the very first the light had been clear to Selina, and she was never weary of telling the wondrous story of Christ’s love and life and death to her mother. Over and over daily, sometimes hourly, the same words were repeated with patient, nay, with joyful iteration, and Selina became God’s messenger to her mother. He spake to the dying woman through her child’s voice; and peace, beyond all power of earthly things to trouble, rested on her. In her state of weakness she was less capable than ever of continued thought on any subject; but she saw clearly, and held firmly to this, “He lovedme, and gave Himself forme” and His promise was made good to her, “My peace I leave with you.”What strange, still, dream-like days they were which followed till the end came! Frederica, standing, in her care for them all, a little apart from her mother and sister, looked on with wonder. Selina was doing for her mother all that she used to dream of doing. She was comforting, sustaining, and showing her the way to heaven, which was drawing near. She did not grudge Selina this joy. Far from that! Seeing their mother’s constant peace; seeing the sudden sweet gleams of something that was more than peace that shone sometimes in the beautiful wasted face, Frederica was ready to say that nothing else mattered much. In the certainty of her mother’s blessedness, she wished to forget—she did forget at times—all else that could trouble her.“If only papa could come home,” she said a hundred times a day to herself. To her mother she spoke hopefully and cheerfully of his return. The tidings that came mail by mail varied. Sometimes he was better, and sometimes worse, and the time seemed long to them all.“We shall meet again,” said his wife often; and once she added, “and we shall not misunderstand or vex one another any more.” But whether she meant in this world or in heaven, her children did not know.So day after day they waited. Miss Agnace, strong, and gentle, and patient, with watchful eyes and silent lips, went in and out among them—an angel of help and kindness. To her, even more than to Frederica, the change that had come over the dying woman was wonderful.“She is no longer the same,” said she, in one of her many confidences to Father Jerome. “They were reading about ‘a new creature’ the other day. That is what she has become. ‘Old things have passed away, all things have become new.’ I do not understand it. Is it well with her, think you, father? If at the end you are with her, to lay hands on her and touch her with the oil of blessing, do you not think it may be well with her? It is Jesus on whom she relies. Is that enough, father?”“Let us wait until the end,” said Father Jerome gravely, and to Sister Agnace he would say no more.Nor did he say a word now to disturb the peace of the dying woman. He could hardly have done so; for whenever he came he found one or both of the girls sitting by her side, and they would suffer no word to be uttered to trouble her. Indeed, he seemed to have no wish to utter any such word, and he came but seldom as the end drew near.His brother was ill again, “failing fast,” he told Frederica, when she enquired. It was Mr Jerome who did for them all that Mr St. Cyr would have done, had he been well. He sent for their brothers when their mother grew worse. He was kind and thoughtful for them in many ways, and said never a word to remind them that he believed them to be all wrong, or that their mother, dying out of the true Church, was going to no certainty of rest or happiness.Did he doubt it? Who can tell? He stood beside the dying bed in wonder. “A new creature!” Yes, there was no better word for it than that. She was changed. Instead of the fears, and cares, and anxious questionings of former days, there was in her heart and in her face “the peace that passeth understanding,” “the joy unspeakable,” which is theirs whom God loves.“I am not afraid. ‘He loved me, and gave Himself for me,’” she said with difficulty, as he stooped for a moment over her.Afraid! No. There was no shadow of fear on the radiant face turned towards him, and in his heart, for the moment at least, he acknowledged that she had no cause for fear. That there was need or room for any man to come between this passing soul and the Saviour who loved her, whom she loved, whom she hoped so soon to behold, could not surely be. It was as though she already beheld Him, he could not but acknowledge. But looking up, and meeting the gaze of Sister Agnace’s asking eyes, he spoke no such word to her.“Is she safe?” asked she eagerly. “Will you let her die unblessed of the Church? and must she perish?”But he did not answer.“May God have mercy on us all,” said he solemnly.“Amen!” said Miss Agnace, crossing herself. “Is it enough, I wonder? ‘He loved us, and gave Himself for us.’ ‘The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin.’ That is what these children are always saying to her and to one another. And surely she is cleansed and saved. Ah, well! I will send at the very last for Father Jerome, and for Sister Magdalen, and it will be well, let us hope. It ought to be enough, the blood of Jesus Christ.”But neither Father Jerome nor Sister Magdalen was with her at the end. A very peaceful end to a troubled life it was. Her children were all there, and Mr and Mrs Brandon. They thought her dying early in the afternoon, but she revived again, and spoke to them all, and sent a message to their father.“Tell him I shall be waiting for him till he comes. Are you here, Frederica? Write it now beside me, that no time may be lost. Tell him, ‘He loved us, and gave Himself for us.’”If she spoke after that, they did not catch the words. They waited on, hour after hour, and so gently came the messenger, they scarce knew the moment when she was called.“They thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.”Then “a change” came over the beautiful worn face. Tessie uttered a startled cry, and Selina laid down her face on the hand growing cold in hers, Frederica, taking a step toward the door, said, “Now I must go to papa.” But she would have fallen, had not Miss Agnace put her arm around her.Then there were long, long days of waiting. Awed by the remembrance of their mother’s face, and the unwonted quiet of the house, the little boys now and then broke into momentary tears, and Tessie gave way sometimes, and cried bitterly. Selina comforted them all. She hardly realised yet what had befallen her. She only thought that her mother was at rest—that the weariness of earth was over, and the joy of heaven begun, and she said to the others how blessed their mother was now, how safe, and satisfied, and how she was waiting for them all there. Frederica listened as the rest did, and watched with grave, attentive eyes all that was done in preparation for the funeral, but she hardly ever spoke a word.So Mrs Vane was carried away from the house where she was born, and where she had lived all her life. Her little sons followed her to the grave, but her daughters remained at home, as is the custom in M. among people of their class. They sat silent in the room where their mother had lain, refusing to leave it till their brothers came home. Mrs Brandon was with them, and by-and-by Miss Agnace came and sat down by the door. It grew dark, for the days were at the shortest, and it seemed a long time before the little boys came home.“And now I must go to papa,” said Frederica that night, before Mrs Brandon went away. Mrs Brandon looked in perplexity at Miss Agnace, who whispered,—“Say nothing to-night. Look at her eyes and her changing colour. She is not fit to be spoken to to-night. Poor child! There are weary days before her.”

Frederica was the least happy of them all at this time. They had heard nothing as yet about Mr Vane’s return; and, as must be the case in every household at every changing season, there were many things to be arranged, and some of them required a decision which Frederica was neither old enough nor wise enough to exercise; and she was troubled in various ways. She rejoiced in the new rest and peace that had come to her mother and Selina, and said to herself often, that all the rest mattered little, since it was well with them; but other things sometimes pressed on her heavily.

Tessie had grown impatient under the restraint of circumstances, and also under the control which Frederica, not always with the best judgment, sought to exercise over her for her good. She was wilful, and sought the companionship of young people whom her sister did not Know, or of whom she did not approve. Madame Precoe, who as Mrs Ascot had been Tessie’s pet aversion, invited her often; and she liked going there better than to the house of her sister, Mrs Brandon, who did not ask her very often.

Her little brothers, too, were getting beyond her control. The lady who had taught them daily for some years, being obliged, for family reasons, to leave them, her place was not found easy to supply, and it was decided that it was best to send them to school. Not to a day-school; that would not have answered in the circumstances. They were sent to a school which Mrs Brandon recommended, and which Frederica had heard her father mention with favour. It was a small private school in the village of T., at some distance from M. But the little lads went willingly enough, eager as children usually are for change, and for a time Frederica was quite at rest about them.

All this time she could not avail herself of the doubtful help which the telling of her troubles to Mr St. Cyr would have given her; for he was ill. She went to see him more than once, but they would not let her in, and Mr Jerome’s grave looks and assurances that the sight of her old friend would be no pleasure to her now, filled Frederica with sorrow, and with a dread of what might happen to them all when Mr St. Cyr should be no more.

But over the sea there were coming, even then, tidings that made all else seem of little moment to Frederica and them all. One mail brought word that Mr Vane was coming home; but the next brought word that made it doubtful whether he ever would come home again. At the first reading, the tidings of evil seemed scarcely to admit of hope. Still they tried to speak hopefully in their mother’s presence, and none more hopefully than Frederica. But enclosed in the letter of her English brother, telling them of the accident and danger of her father, were a few lines to Frederica written by his own hand, that left little room for hope in her heart.

“My darling,” he wrote, “they will have no one but you. I cannot recall the past. You must stand by your mother, and make her understand that I would like Colonel Bentham to be appointed your guardian in my stead. He is an honourable and upright man, and he is about to return to Canada to remain; and I do not think Mr St. Cyr, who knows him well, will object. Do not lose a day after you receive this. If I live, it need make no difference. I trust to you, Frederica, in all things. Lose no time. Oh, if I could only recall the past!”

That was all. Not even his name was written after it.

“Oh! papa! papa!” sobbed the girl, as she lay alone in the darkness. “Shall I never see you any more? And how shall I ever tell mama?”

Mrs Vane was at first only told that an accident had happened to her husband, which would probably delay his return for a little while. He had been thrown from his horse while riding. They could only wait for another mail to hear more, and the first telling alarmed her less than they had feared it might do.

One good thing came out of this sad event to Tessie. Startled by Frederica’s giving way so utterly at the news of their father’s danger, and conscience-stricken at the knowledge that she had been disobeying his known wishes all these weeks she at once proposed to return to Mrs Glencairn’s, and all agreed that there was no better thing for her to do. So that anxiety was set at rest.

To no one, not even to Mrs Brandon, did Frederica show her father’s letter. Moved by a fear which she could not put in words, she kept secret the commission he had given her, and at the first moment that it was possible for her to do so, took her way to Mr St. Cyr’s house. She had not seen him for a long time. He was not well enough to see any one, she had always been told whenever she had called to enquire for him, and yet she had heard by chance of others who had been allowed to enter his room. Miss Agnace had been there, and Sister Magdalen; and she had heard indirectly of his being able to transact business of importance, and she went determined to see him, if it were possible to do so.

She entered the outer door with some one who was going into the office, and went upstairs unquestioned. She opened one door, and then another, and there sat Mr St. Cyr, looking ill and changed certainly, but with his papers about him, not at all as though he were unequal to any work. He greeted her with a pleased exclamation, and then playfully reproached her with having forgotten him in his illness.

“But I have been here often, Cousin Cyprien,” said she, eagerly; “and they would not let me come up to you. Did they not tell you? Mr Jerome always said you were too ill to be disturbed. Are you better, Cousin Cyprien?”

“Yes, I am better. And did they let you come up now?”

“I did not ask. I came up and opened the door. I left Mr Jerome at our house.”

“Ah, my dear! I fear your trouble is beyond my power to remove this time. I have heard of your father. Let us hope the accident to him was not so serious as was feared.”

“It is very serious, I am afraid. But, Mr St. Cyr, youcanhelp me, and him;” and she offered him her father’s letter.

“Is it so bad?” said he, when he had read it, and he said nothing more for a long time.

“I have not told mama yet,” said Frederica.

“Will you do as papa wishes, Cousin Cyprien? Is it necessary?”

“Since he wishes it, the change may be made. It will be better.”

“But whoever may be appointed, you will always take care of mama and us all?”

“While I live, dear child, yes; so help me God. But I have had a warning, too; and I must leave you in good hands. There is no time to lose.”

No time was lost. The proper steps were at once taken, and the necessary papers prepared in the shortest time possible. At some risk to himself, Mr St. Cyr went to Mrs Vane’s house, and the whole affair was arranged to his satisfaction. It was all done during a temporary absence of Mr Jerome from the city, and Mr St. Cyr did not see it necessary to intimate to him that any change had been made in regard to Mrs Vane’s children. But one night Mr Jerome found on the table, among other papers, one which he did not think it beneath him to glance at—a paper properly drawn, and signed, and witnessed, by which Mrs Vane and Mr St. Cyr had appointed three trustees, who were to have the oversight of the property left to Mr St. Hubert’s grandchildren till they should come of age. But it was torn across. It was dated several years back; and seeing it, Mr Jerome said to himself, “There is another to be prepared.”

Strangely enough, it never occurred to him that this had been already done. He did not speak to his brother about it; but he kept the matter in his thoughts, and watched the course of events. It was a matter in which he took much interest; and when his brother grew worse, and day after day passed without anything being done or even said with regard to it, he was surprised; but he was not sorry at the delay. He had by this time become convinced that no influence of his could move Mr St. Cyr in the arrangement of the Vanes’ affairs, and he wisely refrained from attempting it. If trustees were not appointed for carrying out the will of Mr St. Hubert in the manner specified by himself, there must still be guardians appointed for the Vane children, should they be left orphans, and it must be done by a power possibly more open to such influence as his, and it would be far better to say no word to remind his brother, but, let things take their course. He brooded over this in his silent way, till something like a plan for changing all the future relations of these children wrought itself out in his mind, and he prepared himself, and, as far as he could venture to do so, endeavoured to prepare others, to act on this plan when the right time should come.

The next mail brought no good news from England. Colonel Bentham wrote to Mrs Vane, telling her of her husband’s wishes with regard to their children, and saying that, should she see fit to name him as one of their guardians, he would faithfully fulfil the duties of the trust. This letter, through means of Miss Agnace, Mr Jerome read, and it confirmed him in the opinion that nothing had been done to supply the place of the legal document which had been destroyed.

Frederica also received a letter from her sister Cecilia, who had married Colonel Bentham’s son. It was a very kind letter, but over it Frederica shed many tears. It told her how her father longed for them all; and the poor girl blamed herself that she had not obeyed his wish, and gone home with Mrs Bury, so that she might have been with him now. But for the sake of her mother and the rest, Frederica had done well to stay at home.

For every day made it more plain to them all that Mrs Vane’s death was near. Sorrowful days they were; but joy mingled with their sorrow; for her peace flowed still and deep.

She had never been a person of strong mind, and the training of her early days had not been of a kind to strengthen her mentally or morally. Out of the pain and weariness of these last years there had come no strength, but a great longing for rest, and a fear, vague but horrible, of death, and the unknown future beyond.

And so the words of peace, spoken by the old man whom Frederica had brought in for shelter, had come as a message from God to her soul. To the trembling hope of a Saviour which it awakened she clung, as a child in the dark clings to the unseen hand that holds it; and by-and-by, as the light of truth grew clearer to her eyes, she knew the hand she held was the hand of Jesus, strong and tender, with power to hold her safe for ever, and then she was at rest.

From the very first the light had been clear to Selina, and she was never weary of telling the wondrous story of Christ’s love and life and death to her mother. Over and over daily, sometimes hourly, the same words were repeated with patient, nay, with joyful iteration, and Selina became God’s messenger to her mother. He spake to the dying woman through her child’s voice; and peace, beyond all power of earthly things to trouble, rested on her. In her state of weakness she was less capable than ever of continued thought on any subject; but she saw clearly, and held firmly to this, “He lovedme, and gave Himself forme” and His promise was made good to her, “My peace I leave with you.”

What strange, still, dream-like days they were which followed till the end came! Frederica, standing, in her care for them all, a little apart from her mother and sister, looked on with wonder. Selina was doing for her mother all that she used to dream of doing. She was comforting, sustaining, and showing her the way to heaven, which was drawing near. She did not grudge Selina this joy. Far from that! Seeing their mother’s constant peace; seeing the sudden sweet gleams of something that was more than peace that shone sometimes in the beautiful wasted face, Frederica was ready to say that nothing else mattered much. In the certainty of her mother’s blessedness, she wished to forget—she did forget at times—all else that could trouble her.

“If only papa could come home,” she said a hundred times a day to herself. To her mother she spoke hopefully and cheerfully of his return. The tidings that came mail by mail varied. Sometimes he was better, and sometimes worse, and the time seemed long to them all.

“We shall meet again,” said his wife often; and once she added, “and we shall not misunderstand or vex one another any more.” But whether she meant in this world or in heaven, her children did not know.

So day after day they waited. Miss Agnace, strong, and gentle, and patient, with watchful eyes and silent lips, went in and out among them—an angel of help and kindness. To her, even more than to Frederica, the change that had come over the dying woman was wonderful.

“She is no longer the same,” said she, in one of her many confidences to Father Jerome. “They were reading about ‘a new creature’ the other day. That is what she has become. ‘Old things have passed away, all things have become new.’ I do not understand it. Is it well with her, think you, father? If at the end you are with her, to lay hands on her and touch her with the oil of blessing, do you not think it may be well with her? It is Jesus on whom she relies. Is that enough, father?”

“Let us wait until the end,” said Father Jerome gravely, and to Sister Agnace he would say no more.

Nor did he say a word now to disturb the peace of the dying woman. He could hardly have done so; for whenever he came he found one or both of the girls sitting by her side, and they would suffer no word to be uttered to trouble her. Indeed, he seemed to have no wish to utter any such word, and he came but seldom as the end drew near.

His brother was ill again, “failing fast,” he told Frederica, when she enquired. It was Mr Jerome who did for them all that Mr St. Cyr would have done, had he been well. He sent for their brothers when their mother grew worse. He was kind and thoughtful for them in many ways, and said never a word to remind them that he believed them to be all wrong, or that their mother, dying out of the true Church, was going to no certainty of rest or happiness.

Did he doubt it? Who can tell? He stood beside the dying bed in wonder. “A new creature!” Yes, there was no better word for it than that. She was changed. Instead of the fears, and cares, and anxious questionings of former days, there was in her heart and in her face “the peace that passeth understanding,” “the joy unspeakable,” which is theirs whom God loves.

“I am not afraid. ‘He loved me, and gave Himself for me,’” she said with difficulty, as he stooped for a moment over her.

Afraid! No. There was no shadow of fear on the radiant face turned towards him, and in his heart, for the moment at least, he acknowledged that she had no cause for fear. That there was need or room for any man to come between this passing soul and the Saviour who loved her, whom she loved, whom she hoped so soon to behold, could not surely be. It was as though she already beheld Him, he could not but acknowledge. But looking up, and meeting the gaze of Sister Agnace’s asking eyes, he spoke no such word to her.

“Is she safe?” asked she eagerly. “Will you let her die unblessed of the Church? and must she perish?”

But he did not answer.

“May God have mercy on us all,” said he solemnly.

“Amen!” said Miss Agnace, crossing herself. “Is it enough, I wonder? ‘He loved us, and gave Himself for us.’ ‘The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin.’ That is what these children are always saying to her and to one another. And surely she is cleansed and saved. Ah, well! I will send at the very last for Father Jerome, and for Sister Magdalen, and it will be well, let us hope. It ought to be enough, the blood of Jesus Christ.”

But neither Father Jerome nor Sister Magdalen was with her at the end. A very peaceful end to a troubled life it was. Her children were all there, and Mr and Mrs Brandon. They thought her dying early in the afternoon, but she revived again, and spoke to them all, and sent a message to their father.

“Tell him I shall be waiting for him till he comes. Are you here, Frederica? Write it now beside me, that no time may be lost. Tell him, ‘He loved us, and gave Himself for us.’”

If she spoke after that, they did not catch the words. They waited on, hour after hour, and so gently came the messenger, they scarce knew the moment when she was called.

“They thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.”

“They thought her dying when she slept,And sleeping when she died.”

Then “a change” came over the beautiful worn face. Tessie uttered a startled cry, and Selina laid down her face on the hand growing cold in hers, Frederica, taking a step toward the door, said, “Now I must go to papa.” But she would have fallen, had not Miss Agnace put her arm around her.

Then there were long, long days of waiting. Awed by the remembrance of their mother’s face, and the unwonted quiet of the house, the little boys now and then broke into momentary tears, and Tessie gave way sometimes, and cried bitterly. Selina comforted them all. She hardly realised yet what had befallen her. She only thought that her mother was at rest—that the weariness of earth was over, and the joy of heaven begun, and she said to the others how blessed their mother was now, how safe, and satisfied, and how she was waiting for them all there. Frederica listened as the rest did, and watched with grave, attentive eyes all that was done in preparation for the funeral, but she hardly ever spoke a word.

So Mrs Vane was carried away from the house where she was born, and where she had lived all her life. Her little sons followed her to the grave, but her daughters remained at home, as is the custom in M. among people of their class. They sat silent in the room where their mother had lain, refusing to leave it till their brothers came home. Mrs Brandon was with them, and by-and-by Miss Agnace came and sat down by the door. It grew dark, for the days were at the shortest, and it seemed a long time before the little boys came home.

“And now I must go to papa,” said Frederica that night, before Mrs Brandon went away. Mrs Brandon looked in perplexity at Miss Agnace, who whispered,—

“Say nothing to-night. Look at her eyes and her changing colour. She is not fit to be spoken to to-night. Poor child! There are weary days before her.”

Chapter Fifteen.Miss Agnace was right. The next day Frederica began with her own hands the preparations for the voyage she was determined to make, and Miss Agnace, going up in a little while to her room, found her lying on the floor, among the garments she had gathered together, quite insensible. She had come to the end of her strength now. For the next few weeks she knew little of what was going on in the house. Except that Selina was with her now, as well as Miss Agnace, the days passed very much as they had done after her father went away.Tessie went willingly back to school, for Madame Precoe’s presence in the house was altogether distasteful to her. Madame had taken up her abode with them, no one knew at whose request or suggestion. Her stay gave pleasure to no one. Mrs Brandon was more than displeased, she was indignant. But there was no one to whom appeal could be made. It was to be presumed that Mr Jerome was carrying out the plans of Mr St. Cyr, who was the proper person to act for Mrs Vane’s children, and Mr Jerome approved of Madame’s residence with them. There was nothing to be done therefore but to wait patiently till their father came home.The boys were sent to school again within a few days after their mother’s funeral. Mr Jerome took them away, saying that school was the best place for them, and so no doubt it was. The boys went away willingly, for their home was altogether changed now.For a good while Frederica was not sufficiently able to notice what was going on about her, to be unhappy because of these things. Selina was constantly saying to herself and her sister, that it would be well with them, and they need not fear, and she believed it, and Frederica came to believe it too.But whether it was to be well with them or not, Frederica knew there was nothing she could do to help it. What a poor weak little creature she felt herself to be! Even Selina, whom she had meant to care for and comfort, was stronger than she—stronger and wiser, and more to be relied on in a time of trouble; and she found it difficult sometimes not to murmur at her weakness.She was very weak. The slightest exertion tired her. A word brought tears to her eyes. She needed quite another kind of discipline than that which she was getting at the hands of her sister and Miss Agnace, Madame Precoe hinted to Mr Jerome, and she also hinted what sort of discipline it ought to be. But either he did not agree with her, or had not the power to put her plans in practice, for the girls were left undisturbed together under Miss Agnace’s care.“Selina,” said Frederica one day, after a hint from Madame Precoe, “I had forgotten how very disagreeable Mrs Ascot used to be. Her visit has taken away all the good effect of Miss Agnace’s medicine.”“Don’t be foolish, Fred dear,” said her sister.“Oh! you did not see her face, or the horrible shrug of her shoulders. You cannot know. Has she quite taken possession of us and the house. I wonder what her beloved Precoe can do without her!”“Fred,” said Selina, laughing, and kissing her, “you are almost your old self again. It delights me to see you vexed with Prickly Polly.”Frederica laughed, partly at the old nickname, and partly at Selina’s way of saying it; for French had always been Selina’s language with her mother, and she spoke English with an accent not at all like the rest.“But she is not ‘Prickly Polly’ now. She is not easily offended as she used to be. I have not tried certainly; but she has a grand and satisfied air, as though she had but to speak to put things on a pleasant footing—for herself at least.”“You must rise, Fred, and sit on this chair. You are quite well, I am sure. She was not ten minutes in the room, and you saw all that.”“Oh! Selina,” said Frederica, with a sigh, “it is very sad to think now of the days when we were young and had no trouble.”“But then, we are still rather young, are we not?” said Selina gravely. “And if you remember, there never was a time when we were quite without trouble. Always mama was ill, and there were other things sometimes.”“Yes, that is true.”“Mama will not suffer any more, and I am glad for her.”But it was a tearful smile that bore witness to her gladness, and Frederica broke into weeping as she looked at her sister’s face.“Oh! Lena! Lena!” she gasped, “are we never to have her with us any more? nor papa—”“Hush, Fred! Don’t cry like that,” said Selina, crying herself, but more gently. “Think how well she is, and how satisfied. And papa may come home; but I don’t think he will: I think he will go to mama. He has had all this long time to think, and to be sorry. And Jesus loves him too. He gave Himself forhim.”“Oh! Lena! Lena!” was all that Frederica could say.“And, darling, think how glad mama will be! and nothing shall grieve them any more. We shall be with them there; and you may go very soon, for you are not strong.”Frederica was startled by her sister’s words.“No. I am not strong: but to die! Lena, I must not die. I must live to take care of you all. Oh! what a foolish girl I am! As though I could do anything!” and her tears fell fast as her sister tried to soothe her.“And, Lena, I would not like to die yet, even to see mama. I am not good like you.”“Hush, dear. I think God will let you live to take care of us all. And you are not to cry any more to-night. For indeed, except that you are weak and tired, there is no cause.”But Frederica was weak in body and mind, and cried herself to sleep, and Miss Agnace saw with anxiety her flushed wet cheeks when she came in.“I almost wish she might have her desire, and go away to England,” said she as she stood looking at her. “She needs something to rouse and interest her. But perhaps Madame’s plan for her would be best.”“What is her plan?” asked Selina quickly. “My child, Madame has given me no authority to speak of any plan of hers. But I wish there could come a change of some kind for this poor Miss Frederica.”“She is better, and I don’t know why Madame Precoe should take trouble in making plans for us. What has she to do with us, or our plans?”“Nay, my child! It is not well to say anything in that voice and manner. It is not like you. It will all be well, as you often say. Why should you be afraid?”“Yes, it will be well,” said Selina, and she thought so still, though she felt that her sister’s eyes were wet beneath her kiss. “We must have patience a little while. It will all be well.”“Yes, it will be well,” said Miss Agnace, thinking how Father Jerome had set himself to the work of saving these children. Yet she sighed, too; for she had learned to love them dearly, and she longed that they should be happy, as well as safe. If Father Jerome were permitted to have his will as to their future life, she feared that suffering must come before the happiness. She could not help them much, she knew, still she gave them good counsel, repeated her little legends, and prayed earnestly to Mary and the saints in their behalf. In her heart she believed it would be well with them in the end, and in the meantime she longed to comfort them and to teach them as well. So that night, as the young girls sat in the darkening room a little sad and dreary, with the tears not very far from the eyes of either of them, she said softly,—“My children, do you never comfort yourselves and one another by praying for your dear mother’s soul?”Frederica looked at her in astonishment, not quite free from anger.“I do not understand you, Miss Agnace,” said Selina gently.“It would soothe and comfort you, would it not, to feel that you might still do something for your dear mama?”“We do what we think would please her by loving one another, and caring for our brothers and Tessie. We can do nothing more,” said Selina.“Ah! who knows?” said Miss Agnace. “It is dark beyond the grave.”“The grave is dark, but beyond the grave is heaven. Do you know what is said of it, Miss Agnace? ‘And the city had no need of the sun neither of the moon, to shine in it: for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof.’ Frederica, read about it to Miss Agnace.”But Frederica made no movement.“Miss Agnace does not care for the Bible. Father Jerome is her Bible. I am glad he is not mine,” said Frederica contemptuously; for she was not pleased with what Miss Agnace had said. Miss Agnace took no notice.“We know so little,” said she. “But the Church teaches us that there are purifying fires through which some, even some of the saints, have had to pass to heaven. Every day I pray that if your dear mother is not yet safe and happy, the time may be hastened.”Frederica uttered an angry cry.“Nay, but I fear Father Jerome would say all that was wrong—to pray for the soul of a heretic.”“Fred dear, that is quite wrong,” said Selina, but she was herself very pale. “If you please, Miss Agnace will not speak of these things on which we do not think alike. But, Frederica, it is foolish to be angry.”“But, my dear children, though we may keep silence, or forget, that will change nothing. And the Church teaches no doctrine more clearly than that some must enter heaven through purifying fires.”“We will not talk about it,” said Frederica.If they had talked all night about it, Miss Agnace could have said no more. The Church taught the doctrine—none more plainly—and there were examples enough, of which she could have told them.“No, we will speak no more,” said Selina. “Only this, Miss Agnace. There is a word which you believe as well as we: ‘The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin.’ Now surely those who are cleansed in this precious blood need no purifying fires. And there is nothing else. The Book of God tells of no other way.”“Yes, I know it is the blood of Jesus. Still the Church is clear in her teaching, and it would do no harm to ask. It might comfort you, and who knows—?”“It would be mockery; for we do not believe in it,” said Frederica.“It would be wrong,” said Selina. “It would dishonour the Lord Jesus. He has done all for His people. He saves to the uttermost, He needs no help from purifying fires. Could any one say, could even David have said, ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley and shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me,’ if there had been any danger that after all he might be left behind? And the old man told us, ‘Death is swallowed up in victory.’”“The Bible is what we go by,” said Frederica, “and we do not mind what else is said.”“But, dear child,” said Miss Agnace, showing no anger, though Frederica’s manner might well have provoked it, “you have not read even all the Bible carefully; and besides, how can children like you interpret what is written there? Indeed, it is because I love you that I speak of these things.”“We know you love us,” said Selina. “But there is only this to be said: Jesus died that we might live for ever. This is for you, and for us, and for all who believe on Him and love Him. All other words are vain.”Nothing more was said; but that Miss Agnace was grieved and anxious about them, they could plainly see.“Selina,” said Frederica, when they were left alone, “did her words make you afraid?”“No,” said Selina slowly, “I am not afraid.”“But how did you know how to answer her? I could only be angry. But we will not speak about it. Oh, dear! I am so tired of Miss Agnace and her teaching. I wish—”“But you like her better than Madame Precoe.”“Much better, but why should we have either?”“I do not know. But now we have both, and there seems to be no one else,” said Selina, with a sigh.“Oh! if papa could only come! We should have no more of Madame Precoe, or Father Jerome, or any of them. Everybody seems to have forsaken us.”“No. A great many people have called. But you have been so ill—and Madame does not care to have even Miss Robina come up. Oh! Fred dear, if you were only quite well again?”“I shall be well, I am determined. I shall be equal to Madame Precoe very soon.”“I do not know why she is here. We do not need her more than we did before. When you are well, you must ask Mr St. Cyr.”“I shall be well I feel quite strong when I think of Madame Ascot Precoe. And we can get Tessie home.”“But that is not a very sure strength, I am afraid. And the best way will be to wait patiently till papa comes home, or till—”Selina stopped suddenly, and Frederica, notwithstanding her boasted strength, burst into tears. They felt very forlorn and friendless, these young girls. There were many in M— who cared for them, and who would gladly have come to them with help and counsel. But they seemed to be under other guardianship. No offered kindness to them was well received either by Mr Jerome St. Cyr, or by Madame Precoe. To the young people themselves there was little chance of access, and those who felt kindly towards them had no opportunity of showing their feelings. Even Mrs Brandon was kept at home by the care of an infant daughter, and no wonder that they began to feel their loneliness press sadly on them.“We can have Tessie home for awhile. I will write a note to Miss Robina, and she will let her come. Then she can read to us, and go out in the sleigh with you.”The note was written, and Tessie came home, well pleased to be made useful, and they brightened up a little. Frederica grew better, and was soon able to drive with her sisters. She made several attempts, more or less successful, to let Madame Precoe see that she was not the mistress of the house, nor even the housekeeper, as she once had been. She was too well bred, and heeded too entirely the peacemaking suggestions of Selina, to say or do anything to make her aware that she was not altogether a welcome visitor. To all appearance Madame was quite content with her ill-defined position in the house, and willing to be on the best of terms with them all. Tessie took less pains than the rest to be agreeable to her, but Madame would take no offence; and beyond a suggestion, that it was not wise to have Tessie losing so much of her time from school, she did not interfere with their arrangements with regard to her.But though there was nothing to disturb the outward quiet of the time, it was a time of trial to them all. There was in every one of them a feeling that they were waiting for something—a sense of dread and doubt, that went deeper than the fear that they might never see their father again. Of that there was little hope. The tidings that came from him varied with every mail, and did not become more hopeful. There never had been much hope that he would be quite well, and now it seemed doubtful whether he would be able to return home again; and gradually, as the winter wore away, there fell on them a dread of what might follow his death to them all.Mr St. Cyr was still an invalid, quite confined to the house. They used to go round that way when they went to drive, and several times Frederica had made an attempt to see him. But he was able to see no one, she was always told: His brother seemed to have taken his place with them, as far as the guidance of their affairs was concerned; but they did not trust Mr Jerome as they had been taught to trust Mr St. Cyr. He was kind in many ways, granting without hesitation almost all the requests made to him, and refusing, when he was obliged to refuse, in a way which ought not to have offended them. But it was not clear to them, that he had a right to assume any guardianship or authority over them, and they made one another unhappy, and sometimes angry, by discussing his possible motives, and the designs he might have with regard to them.If there had been nothing else, the stand he took with regard to Madame Precoe’s residence with them would have made them dislike him. He said decidedly, when appealed to, that she must remain. A family of young girls in their circumstances could not well be left without some responsible person to take charge of them. There was no one so well fitted for the position as Madame. Her former residence in the house made this evident. Her society was not, it seemed, indispensable to the happiness of Mr Precoe. At least, she could be spared, and was willing to devote herself to their interests. What complaint had they against her?They had no complaints, except that Tessie detested her, and Frederica did not trust her; but neither the one nor the other could give any satisfactory reason for the feelings entertained toward her, and she remained.She had taken the affairs of the house into her own hands from the very first. There were changes made in various respects. Old servants were dismissed for reasons which commended themselves to her judgment and the judgment of Mr Jerome, and she did not trouble the young ladies about the matter. Still she was not unreasonable with regard to this, nor arbitrary, as the priest took pains to point out to them. For when they indignantly exclaimed against the dismissal of old Dixen, Madame certainly did not look pleased, but she did not insist. Dixen still kept his place in the house, and came and went at everybody’s bidding, but he was no longer permitted to drive the young ladies as he had always done before. It was dangerous in the crowded streets, Madame said, for Dixen was getting both deaf and blind, and his place was given to one whom she considered in every way worthy of confidence.Madame did not trouble herself to answer expostulations or objections. She did not resent Frederica’s but half-concealed distrust, or Tessie’s open impertinence. Like every one else in the house, she seemed waiting for something—“biding her time,” as Tessie said, and knowing her as they did, they were hardly to be blamed for looking forward with dread, and for the determination, daily strengthening, to resist her influence and interference when the time for change should come.Miss Agnace was with them still, but she was very grave and silent at this time. Any day or hour she might be recalled to her hospital and her sick people again, and she was sad at the thought of leaving the children whom she had learned to love so well. But she was sad for another reason too—a reason which oughtnotto have troubled her. This silent, patient, humble woman, who had long ago forgotten what it was to have hopes, or fears, or wishes of her own, had her heart stirred to its utmost depths for the sake of these orphan children. She was afraid for them. And yet, why should she be afraid? Why should she look forward with such dread to the change and separation that sooner or later must come to them? Were they not to be in good keeping? Had not Father Jerome given himself to the work of caring for their souls, of bringing them into the true Church? thus ensuring their happiness, both in this world and the next. They must suffer a little while, being separated from each other; but with such good and gentle children the struggle would not be long. Why should she fear for them? So blessed an end would justify the use of any means, and who was she that she should judge the actions of one like Father Jerome?But in spite of her confidence in the priest, in spite of her reasonings and her indignation at herself because of her misgivings, she had painful sinkings of heart for the children’s sakes. Sometimes, as she sat listening to their conversation, or watched Frederica writing to their little brothers letters which would never reach them, because she knew they must be given by her into Father Jerome’s hands, to be read and smiled at, and put into the fire, she had a feeling of pain and shame which no confidence in the priest, no belief in the good work he was to do in the saving of these children’s souls, could quite put away. She knew that, with the will of Father Jerome, the sisters would not for years see their brothers again. She knew that into his plans for them the entire separation of the sisters entered. It might be best for them, she acknowledged, but it was very, very sad.The boys had not been sent back to the school from which they had been brought at the time of their mother’s death. They were in one of the great Catholic schools of the city, where hundreds of boys of all ages and classes were taught. It was a good school, Miss Agnace believed, and they would be well taught and well disciplined, and where no evil could befall them. It was the best place in the world for them, she was sure. But she shrank with a feeling of pain and shame from the thought that their sisters were being deceived with regard to them. And if it was wrong for Father Jerome and Madame Precoe, what was it for her, whom they loved and trusted, to deceive them? Many a painful question, which she could not answer, came into Miss Agnace’s thoughts during these days of waiting—questions which she called sinful—but which she could neither answer nor put quite away.

Miss Agnace was right. The next day Frederica began with her own hands the preparations for the voyage she was determined to make, and Miss Agnace, going up in a little while to her room, found her lying on the floor, among the garments she had gathered together, quite insensible. She had come to the end of her strength now. For the next few weeks she knew little of what was going on in the house. Except that Selina was with her now, as well as Miss Agnace, the days passed very much as they had done after her father went away.

Tessie went willingly back to school, for Madame Precoe’s presence in the house was altogether distasteful to her. Madame had taken up her abode with them, no one knew at whose request or suggestion. Her stay gave pleasure to no one. Mrs Brandon was more than displeased, she was indignant. But there was no one to whom appeal could be made. It was to be presumed that Mr Jerome was carrying out the plans of Mr St. Cyr, who was the proper person to act for Mrs Vane’s children, and Mr Jerome approved of Madame’s residence with them. There was nothing to be done therefore but to wait patiently till their father came home.

The boys were sent to school again within a few days after their mother’s funeral. Mr Jerome took them away, saying that school was the best place for them, and so no doubt it was. The boys went away willingly, for their home was altogether changed now.

For a good while Frederica was not sufficiently able to notice what was going on about her, to be unhappy because of these things. Selina was constantly saying to herself and her sister, that it would be well with them, and they need not fear, and she believed it, and Frederica came to believe it too.

But whether it was to be well with them or not, Frederica knew there was nothing she could do to help it. What a poor weak little creature she felt herself to be! Even Selina, whom she had meant to care for and comfort, was stronger than she—stronger and wiser, and more to be relied on in a time of trouble; and she found it difficult sometimes not to murmur at her weakness.

She was very weak. The slightest exertion tired her. A word brought tears to her eyes. She needed quite another kind of discipline than that which she was getting at the hands of her sister and Miss Agnace, Madame Precoe hinted to Mr Jerome, and she also hinted what sort of discipline it ought to be. But either he did not agree with her, or had not the power to put her plans in practice, for the girls were left undisturbed together under Miss Agnace’s care.

“Selina,” said Frederica one day, after a hint from Madame Precoe, “I had forgotten how very disagreeable Mrs Ascot used to be. Her visit has taken away all the good effect of Miss Agnace’s medicine.”

“Don’t be foolish, Fred dear,” said her sister.

“Oh! you did not see her face, or the horrible shrug of her shoulders. You cannot know. Has she quite taken possession of us and the house. I wonder what her beloved Precoe can do without her!”

“Fred,” said Selina, laughing, and kissing her, “you are almost your old self again. It delights me to see you vexed with Prickly Polly.”

Frederica laughed, partly at the old nickname, and partly at Selina’s way of saying it; for French had always been Selina’s language with her mother, and she spoke English with an accent not at all like the rest.

“But she is not ‘Prickly Polly’ now. She is not easily offended as she used to be. I have not tried certainly; but she has a grand and satisfied air, as though she had but to speak to put things on a pleasant footing—for herself at least.”

“You must rise, Fred, and sit on this chair. You are quite well, I am sure. She was not ten minutes in the room, and you saw all that.”

“Oh! Selina,” said Frederica, with a sigh, “it is very sad to think now of the days when we were young and had no trouble.”

“But then, we are still rather young, are we not?” said Selina gravely. “And if you remember, there never was a time when we were quite without trouble. Always mama was ill, and there were other things sometimes.”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Mama will not suffer any more, and I am glad for her.”

But it was a tearful smile that bore witness to her gladness, and Frederica broke into weeping as she looked at her sister’s face.

“Oh! Lena! Lena!” she gasped, “are we never to have her with us any more? nor papa—”

“Hush, Fred! Don’t cry like that,” said Selina, crying herself, but more gently. “Think how well she is, and how satisfied. And papa may come home; but I don’t think he will: I think he will go to mama. He has had all this long time to think, and to be sorry. And Jesus loves him too. He gave Himself forhim.”

“Oh! Lena! Lena!” was all that Frederica could say.

“And, darling, think how glad mama will be! and nothing shall grieve them any more. We shall be with them there; and you may go very soon, for you are not strong.”

Frederica was startled by her sister’s words.

“No. I am not strong: but to die! Lena, I must not die. I must live to take care of you all. Oh! what a foolish girl I am! As though I could do anything!” and her tears fell fast as her sister tried to soothe her.

“And, Lena, I would not like to die yet, even to see mama. I am not good like you.”

“Hush, dear. I think God will let you live to take care of us all. And you are not to cry any more to-night. For indeed, except that you are weak and tired, there is no cause.”

But Frederica was weak in body and mind, and cried herself to sleep, and Miss Agnace saw with anxiety her flushed wet cheeks when she came in.

“I almost wish she might have her desire, and go away to England,” said she as she stood looking at her. “She needs something to rouse and interest her. But perhaps Madame’s plan for her would be best.”

“What is her plan?” asked Selina quickly. “My child, Madame has given me no authority to speak of any plan of hers. But I wish there could come a change of some kind for this poor Miss Frederica.”

“She is better, and I don’t know why Madame Precoe should take trouble in making plans for us. What has she to do with us, or our plans?”

“Nay, my child! It is not well to say anything in that voice and manner. It is not like you. It will all be well, as you often say. Why should you be afraid?”

“Yes, it will be well,” said Selina, and she thought so still, though she felt that her sister’s eyes were wet beneath her kiss. “We must have patience a little while. It will all be well.”

“Yes, it will be well,” said Miss Agnace, thinking how Father Jerome had set himself to the work of saving these children. Yet she sighed, too; for she had learned to love them dearly, and she longed that they should be happy, as well as safe. If Father Jerome were permitted to have his will as to their future life, she feared that suffering must come before the happiness. She could not help them much, she knew, still she gave them good counsel, repeated her little legends, and prayed earnestly to Mary and the saints in their behalf. In her heart she believed it would be well with them in the end, and in the meantime she longed to comfort them and to teach them as well. So that night, as the young girls sat in the darkening room a little sad and dreary, with the tears not very far from the eyes of either of them, she said softly,—

“My children, do you never comfort yourselves and one another by praying for your dear mother’s soul?”

Frederica looked at her in astonishment, not quite free from anger.

“I do not understand you, Miss Agnace,” said Selina gently.

“It would soothe and comfort you, would it not, to feel that you might still do something for your dear mama?”

“We do what we think would please her by loving one another, and caring for our brothers and Tessie. We can do nothing more,” said Selina.

“Ah! who knows?” said Miss Agnace. “It is dark beyond the grave.”

“The grave is dark, but beyond the grave is heaven. Do you know what is said of it, Miss Agnace? ‘And the city had no need of the sun neither of the moon, to shine in it: for the glory of God did lighten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof.’ Frederica, read about it to Miss Agnace.”

But Frederica made no movement.

“Miss Agnace does not care for the Bible. Father Jerome is her Bible. I am glad he is not mine,” said Frederica contemptuously; for she was not pleased with what Miss Agnace had said. Miss Agnace took no notice.

“We know so little,” said she. “But the Church teaches us that there are purifying fires through which some, even some of the saints, have had to pass to heaven. Every day I pray that if your dear mother is not yet safe and happy, the time may be hastened.”

Frederica uttered an angry cry.

“Nay, but I fear Father Jerome would say all that was wrong—to pray for the soul of a heretic.”

“Fred dear, that is quite wrong,” said Selina, but she was herself very pale. “If you please, Miss Agnace will not speak of these things on which we do not think alike. But, Frederica, it is foolish to be angry.”

“But, my dear children, though we may keep silence, or forget, that will change nothing. And the Church teaches no doctrine more clearly than that some must enter heaven through purifying fires.”

“We will not talk about it,” said Frederica.

If they had talked all night about it, Miss Agnace could have said no more. The Church taught the doctrine—none more plainly—and there were examples enough, of which she could have told them.

“No, we will speak no more,” said Selina. “Only this, Miss Agnace. There is a word which you believe as well as we: ‘The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin.’ Now surely those who are cleansed in this precious blood need no purifying fires. And there is nothing else. The Book of God tells of no other way.”

“Yes, I know it is the blood of Jesus. Still the Church is clear in her teaching, and it would do no harm to ask. It might comfort you, and who knows—?”

“It would be mockery; for we do not believe in it,” said Frederica.

“It would be wrong,” said Selina. “It would dishonour the Lord Jesus. He has done all for His people. He saves to the uttermost, He needs no help from purifying fires. Could any one say, could even David have said, ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley and shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me,’ if there had been any danger that after all he might be left behind? And the old man told us, ‘Death is swallowed up in victory.’”

“The Bible is what we go by,” said Frederica, “and we do not mind what else is said.”

“But, dear child,” said Miss Agnace, showing no anger, though Frederica’s manner might well have provoked it, “you have not read even all the Bible carefully; and besides, how can children like you interpret what is written there? Indeed, it is because I love you that I speak of these things.”

“We know you love us,” said Selina. “But there is only this to be said: Jesus died that we might live for ever. This is for you, and for us, and for all who believe on Him and love Him. All other words are vain.”

Nothing more was said; but that Miss Agnace was grieved and anxious about them, they could plainly see.

“Selina,” said Frederica, when they were left alone, “did her words make you afraid?”

“No,” said Selina slowly, “I am not afraid.”

“But how did you know how to answer her? I could only be angry. But we will not speak about it. Oh, dear! I am so tired of Miss Agnace and her teaching. I wish—”

“But you like her better than Madame Precoe.”

“Much better, but why should we have either?”

“I do not know. But now we have both, and there seems to be no one else,” said Selina, with a sigh.

“Oh! if papa could only come! We should have no more of Madame Precoe, or Father Jerome, or any of them. Everybody seems to have forsaken us.”

“No. A great many people have called. But you have been so ill—and Madame does not care to have even Miss Robina come up. Oh! Fred dear, if you were only quite well again?”

“I shall be well, I am determined. I shall be equal to Madame Precoe very soon.”

“I do not know why she is here. We do not need her more than we did before. When you are well, you must ask Mr St. Cyr.”

“I shall be well I feel quite strong when I think of Madame Ascot Precoe. And we can get Tessie home.”

“But that is not a very sure strength, I am afraid. And the best way will be to wait patiently till papa comes home, or till—”

Selina stopped suddenly, and Frederica, notwithstanding her boasted strength, burst into tears. They felt very forlorn and friendless, these young girls. There were many in M— who cared for them, and who would gladly have come to them with help and counsel. But they seemed to be under other guardianship. No offered kindness to them was well received either by Mr Jerome St. Cyr, or by Madame Precoe. To the young people themselves there was little chance of access, and those who felt kindly towards them had no opportunity of showing their feelings. Even Mrs Brandon was kept at home by the care of an infant daughter, and no wonder that they began to feel their loneliness press sadly on them.

“We can have Tessie home for awhile. I will write a note to Miss Robina, and she will let her come. Then she can read to us, and go out in the sleigh with you.”

The note was written, and Tessie came home, well pleased to be made useful, and they brightened up a little. Frederica grew better, and was soon able to drive with her sisters. She made several attempts, more or less successful, to let Madame Precoe see that she was not the mistress of the house, nor even the housekeeper, as she once had been. She was too well bred, and heeded too entirely the peacemaking suggestions of Selina, to say or do anything to make her aware that she was not altogether a welcome visitor. To all appearance Madame was quite content with her ill-defined position in the house, and willing to be on the best of terms with them all. Tessie took less pains than the rest to be agreeable to her, but Madame would take no offence; and beyond a suggestion, that it was not wise to have Tessie losing so much of her time from school, she did not interfere with their arrangements with regard to her.

But though there was nothing to disturb the outward quiet of the time, it was a time of trial to them all. There was in every one of them a feeling that they were waiting for something—a sense of dread and doubt, that went deeper than the fear that they might never see their father again. Of that there was little hope. The tidings that came from him varied with every mail, and did not become more hopeful. There never had been much hope that he would be quite well, and now it seemed doubtful whether he would be able to return home again; and gradually, as the winter wore away, there fell on them a dread of what might follow his death to them all.

Mr St. Cyr was still an invalid, quite confined to the house. They used to go round that way when they went to drive, and several times Frederica had made an attempt to see him. But he was able to see no one, she was always told: His brother seemed to have taken his place with them, as far as the guidance of their affairs was concerned; but they did not trust Mr Jerome as they had been taught to trust Mr St. Cyr. He was kind in many ways, granting without hesitation almost all the requests made to him, and refusing, when he was obliged to refuse, in a way which ought not to have offended them. But it was not clear to them, that he had a right to assume any guardianship or authority over them, and they made one another unhappy, and sometimes angry, by discussing his possible motives, and the designs he might have with regard to them.

If there had been nothing else, the stand he took with regard to Madame Precoe’s residence with them would have made them dislike him. He said decidedly, when appealed to, that she must remain. A family of young girls in their circumstances could not well be left without some responsible person to take charge of them. There was no one so well fitted for the position as Madame. Her former residence in the house made this evident. Her society was not, it seemed, indispensable to the happiness of Mr Precoe. At least, she could be spared, and was willing to devote herself to their interests. What complaint had they against her?

They had no complaints, except that Tessie detested her, and Frederica did not trust her; but neither the one nor the other could give any satisfactory reason for the feelings entertained toward her, and she remained.

She had taken the affairs of the house into her own hands from the very first. There were changes made in various respects. Old servants were dismissed for reasons which commended themselves to her judgment and the judgment of Mr Jerome, and she did not trouble the young ladies about the matter. Still she was not unreasonable with regard to this, nor arbitrary, as the priest took pains to point out to them. For when they indignantly exclaimed against the dismissal of old Dixen, Madame certainly did not look pleased, but she did not insist. Dixen still kept his place in the house, and came and went at everybody’s bidding, but he was no longer permitted to drive the young ladies as he had always done before. It was dangerous in the crowded streets, Madame said, for Dixen was getting both deaf and blind, and his place was given to one whom she considered in every way worthy of confidence.

Madame did not trouble herself to answer expostulations or objections. She did not resent Frederica’s but half-concealed distrust, or Tessie’s open impertinence. Like every one else in the house, she seemed waiting for something—“biding her time,” as Tessie said, and knowing her as they did, they were hardly to be blamed for looking forward with dread, and for the determination, daily strengthening, to resist her influence and interference when the time for change should come.

Miss Agnace was with them still, but she was very grave and silent at this time. Any day or hour she might be recalled to her hospital and her sick people again, and she was sad at the thought of leaving the children whom she had learned to love so well. But she was sad for another reason too—a reason which oughtnotto have troubled her. This silent, patient, humble woman, who had long ago forgotten what it was to have hopes, or fears, or wishes of her own, had her heart stirred to its utmost depths for the sake of these orphan children. She was afraid for them. And yet, why should she be afraid? Why should she look forward with such dread to the change and separation that sooner or later must come to them? Were they not to be in good keeping? Had not Father Jerome given himself to the work of caring for their souls, of bringing them into the true Church? thus ensuring their happiness, both in this world and the next. They must suffer a little while, being separated from each other; but with such good and gentle children the struggle would not be long. Why should she fear for them? So blessed an end would justify the use of any means, and who was she that she should judge the actions of one like Father Jerome?

But in spite of her confidence in the priest, in spite of her reasonings and her indignation at herself because of her misgivings, she had painful sinkings of heart for the children’s sakes. Sometimes, as she sat listening to their conversation, or watched Frederica writing to their little brothers letters which would never reach them, because she knew they must be given by her into Father Jerome’s hands, to be read and smiled at, and put into the fire, she had a feeling of pain and shame which no confidence in the priest, no belief in the good work he was to do in the saving of these children’s souls, could quite put away. She knew that, with the will of Father Jerome, the sisters would not for years see their brothers again. She knew that into his plans for them the entire separation of the sisters entered. It might be best for them, she acknowledged, but it was very, very sad.

The boys had not been sent back to the school from which they had been brought at the time of their mother’s death. They were in one of the great Catholic schools of the city, where hundreds of boys of all ages and classes were taught. It was a good school, Miss Agnace believed, and they would be well taught and well disciplined, and where no evil could befall them. It was the best place in the world for them, she was sure. But she shrank with a feeling of pain and shame from the thought that their sisters were being deceived with regard to them. And if it was wrong for Father Jerome and Madame Precoe, what was it for her, whom they loved and trusted, to deceive them? Many a painful question, which she could not answer, came into Miss Agnace’s thoughts during these days of waiting—questions which she called sinful—but which she could neither answer nor put quite away.

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