Chapter Eight.
Spring was passing into the loveliest part of summer. The school girls were beginning to count the days that must pass before the midsummer holidays; and none counted them more earnestly than did Frederica and her sister. What was to follow the holidays they did not know. There had been nothing more said about sending them to England. But whether they were to be sent there, or to come back again to Mrs Glencairn’s, there were two months of holidays on which they might safely count, and no one knew what might happen before they were over.
Their one short visit since Easter had not been a very successful one. Their mother had been ill and Mrs Ascot had been cross, and there was to be no other visit till holiday time. Dixen had come once or twice with a message from Selina, but the tidings he brought were neither very cheerful nor very definite; and no wonder that Frederica longed for more, and would not lose a chance to get them.
And so one morning, as Mr Vane and some of his friends were riding through one of the wide upper streets, which at that time looked more like the country than the town, they were startled by a voice calling, “Papa, papa,” and out from a straggling line of school girls there sprang a little figure gesticulating eagerly. Mr Vane turned round, and so did the others.
“It is you, Fred, is it?” said he in surprise.
“Yes, papa, I beg your pardon for calling you, but it is so stupid walking along all in a row, and I want to ask you how mama is, and Selina.”
“Oh! they are very well—just as usual. But what will madame the schoolmistress say to your escapade?”
“I am very naughty I know, papa, but I did so want to hear about mama. Is she really better? Why! here she is,” said Frederica in surprise. “Here are Jack and Jill at any rate.”
Yes, there were Jack and Jill, but there was not Mrs Vane nor Selina. A very pretty lady—two of them indeed—leaned back in the carriage. Frederica turned astonished and indignant eyes from them to her father as the carriage stopped.
“Your mama gave herself the pleasure of lending her carriage to Mrs Clifford to-day,” said Mr Vane, and Frederica knew by his tone and manner that he was annoyed, though it would not have done to show it to the rest of the party.
“Let Miss Vane come with us,” said one of the ladies. “We can easily make room for her, can we not, Mrs Clifford?”
Mrs Clifford was not quite sure, but Frederica declined the invitation with a stately little curtsey, and turned to her father again.
“Do come with us, Miss Frederica,” said Major Hargrave, a gentleman whom Frederica had several times seen before: “the day is lovely, and you will enjoy it.”
“Is it a pic-nic? Thank you. It would be very nice, I daresay, but I would rather not. Good-bye, papa; I am afraid Miss Pardie will be very angry with me.”
“And no wonder,” said her father, laughing. The admiring glances which he saw exchanged quite dispelled his momentary vexation.
“We could manage to soothe her, I think,” said he. “Would you like to go, Fred? Where is Tessie?”
“Tessie is not walking to-day. She was naughty, and remained at home. No, I thank you, papa. If there were no other reason, I could not go because of Tessie. It would be too cruel to go and leave her.”
“Naughty! what has she done? It would serve her right to leave her if she has been naughty.”
“Oh! as to that, yes. She was very wrong. She was playing Madame Bulbat for the girls, and Madame heard her, and was in a rage of course. And Miss Robina was obliged to be very severe with the child to keep the peace. I cannot go, papa; but I daresay, if you were to ask her, Miss Pardie would let me go and see mama for a little while.”
But Mr Vane shook his head with sufficient decision.
“No: mama is all right. You are far better at school. She does not need you.”
But pleased with the whispered admiration of the foolish people who were with him, and willing to prolong the pleasure, he moved away with his little daughter in the direction of the line of returning school girls, saying he must make the child’s peace with her teacher; and he quite won Miss Pardie’s heart by his manner of entreating it at her hands.
“Was that your mama in the carriage, and your sister?” asked one of her companions, as they went on together. “I think they might have asked you to go with them.”
“My mama, indeed! That great red woman!” said Frederica scornfully.
“She was very pretty,” said her friend. “That is because she did not ask you to go with them.”
“She did ask me. I did not choose to go.”
“Because of your print dress? Of course you could not have gone in that.”
Thus her friend chattered on, and Frederica answered at random or not at all, thinking of other things. For it did not make her sure that her mother was well again, that her father had said so. And though it was no new thing to her knowledge that her father should seek his own pleasure, without giving a thought to her mother in her enforced retirement, it struck her with new and sharp pain to-day, and her anxious and unhappy thoughts came back again with double force.
“I have a great mind to go home without asking anybody,” she said to herself. But she knew she must not.
She was, for the moment, very unhappy, and it was with a slow step and a sad face that she went to make her confession to Miss Robina. For though Miss Pardie had graciously accepted Mr Vane’s apologies for his daughter’s behaviour, that was only as far as he was concerned. She had her confession to make to Miss Robina all the same; and it is possible that Miss Pardie was not without hope that, for the moral effect of the thing, she would not be permitted to escape without punishment, or at least without reproof. She got no punishment, however, and Miss Robina’s reproof was of the gentlest, when it was explained to her that “she had been so anxious to hear about mama.”
“And I am afraid it was not good news you heard, from the sad face I see,” said Miss Robina, kissing her.
“Papa said she was well, so I suppose she is at least not worse. Am I to be punished, Miss Robina? I think Miss Pardie expects it.”
“You mean you think you deserve it. Well, you must be sent upstairs for a while. Take these strawberries to Eppie, and save me the stairs, and you need not hasten down again.”
So Frederica went slowly upstairs, believing herself to be very unhappy, little thinking how much more unhappy she was to be before she came down again. Eppie was not in her room, which was an unusual circumstance at that hour of the afternoon, and Frederica set down the tiny basket of strawberries on the table, and went to her favourite seat in the west window, with her lesson-book in her hand. In a little while she heard the slow, unequal steps of Eppie on the stairs, and saw her come in with a great bundle in her arms, and watched her as she carefully laid each garment in its place. She did not speak, and in a minute there were other footsteps on the stairs, and Mrs Glencairn came into the room.
Frederica ought to have spoken then. She ought to have made them aware of her presence in the room. But almost the first words she heard startled her so much, as to take away her power of speech, and to make her forget how wrong it was for her to listen to that which was not meant for her ears.
She did not hear all that was said, nor did she know how long it had taken to say it, but when she saw the door close, and heard Mrs Glencairn’s footsteps going slowly down the stairs, she slid from her seat on the window, and confronted Eppie with a white face and angry eyes. The old woman uttered an exclamation, and drew back with uplifted hands.
“Tell me what she meant, Eppie.”
“Miss Frederica! Who would think that you would come and frighten a body out of their wits in that wild way? You have given me a turn that I winna get over this while.”
“Tell me what she said,” repeated Frederica.
But Eppie, hoping that she might have heard little, had no mind to tell her what her mistress had said.
“I would hae thought it o’ any o’ our young leddies rather than of you, pussy. Eh, fie! to be hearkening to what other folk are saying! What think you Miss Robina would say gin I were to tell her?”
But Frederica put her words aside with an impatient gesture.
“Tell me, or I will go to Mrs Glencairn.”
“’Deed you’ll do nothing of the kind. She has had trouble enew already, and it just needs you to go with thae bleezing een o’ yours to upset her altogether. Bide still where you are, like a good bairn.”
Frederica sat down, and neither of them spoke for a while.
“Eppie,” said she at last, “I think I understand, but I am not quite sure. Tell me, so that I need not make a mistake, or bring any one into trouble.”
“Whisht, lassie! It’s a matter you hae nothing to do with, and I counsel you no’ to make nor meddle in it.”
“You are mistaken, Eppie; there is no one but me to put this right, unless mama is to be troubled. And she shall not be troubled. Is this it? For more than a year and a half Mrs Glencairn has received nothing—absolutely nothing—for all that she has done for Tessie and me. She has asked for it more than once, but she has received nothing. I wish to understand.”
Eppie looked at her, but did not answer. The shrewd old woman had seldom been so utterly at a loss before.
“My dear,” said she, “it might have happened to anybody.”
“And we have been living on charity—Tessie and I?”
“Hoot, lassie! dinna speak nonsense. It is all to the fore. And it is a good thing, for it might have been spent, and now it is waiting for Miss Robina to do what she likes with; to go and see her sister, maybe. It’s a good thing that it’s to the fore.”
Frederica looked at her without a word.
“I would advise you no’ to meddle in the matter. It will be all settled as it ought to be, and Miss Robina would be ill pleased that you should ken. And it will be all right, you may be sure,” said Eppie cheerfully.
“It would do no good to go to-day, because papa Is away, and mama is not to be troubled. But to-morrow—Has Mrs Glencairn been very much in need of it; Eppie? Why did they not send us away?”
“My dear, that’s nonsense! What difference would one, or even two, make in a family like this? She would rather have you here than not, though she were never to see the colour of your father’s money. And as for Miss Robina! But the money is safe enough; so just you sit down, and put the thought of it out of your head.”
There was not another word said about it, and Mistress Campbell rejoiced in the readiness with which her counsel had been taken. But Frederica had no thought of “putting it out of her head” in the sense that Eppie hoped. The first sudden shock of anger and shame passed, but it was followed by a pain and doubt not more easily borne. She had only just been able to shut her lips closely, when the name of Mrs Ascot had risen to them; but as she sat there in silence, seeming to read quietly, her thoughts went beyond Mrs Ascot. They followed her father and his gay friends; away into the sunshine of the pleasant fields, and they went to her mother left solitary and suffering, with only Selina to comfort her, and with Mrs Ascot to vex her with cares which she ought never to know.
“It is not kind of papa,” she said, over and over again.
She did not get further than this; for hitherto she had looked at their life and their household ways and cares with the unreasoning eyes of a child. Her father was gay and careless, and apt to forget about things that did not specially concern himself, even a child could see that; but she had never regarded all this as worthy of blame. She had not thought about it in that way at all. But she thought about a great many painful things as she sat with her head bent over her book in Eppie’s garret that night.
There was nothing to be said by anybody. Frederica did not even tell Tessie, as she was almost sure to tell anything that vexed her, in the few minutes that were allowed them for talk before silence was commanded for the night. Tessie could not help her to do as she had determined to do, and Tessie was rather apt to exclaim about things, and to take other girls into her confidence, and such a thing was not to be thought of now.
It would not be easy for her to obtain permission to go home next day, she knew, but she determined to go all the same, whether she got permission or not. But something in the girl’s face made Robina pause before she answered her in one way or the other.
“Has anything happened, love? You have heard no bad news, I hope,” said she kindly.
Frederica did not find it easy to answer.
“Your mama is not worse, I hope.”
“She is not better,” said Frederica huskily. “Won’t you let me go home, Miss Robina? I might go with Nora when she goes to the market, and Dixen will bring me back. Please do, dear Miss Robina, for a little while.”
“I am by no means sure that I ought to say ‘yes,’” said she; but she kissed the sweet pleading face and said it, notwithstanding.
Frederica did not go home first. She took Nora some distance out of her way to her father’s office, and bade her good-bye at the door.
“Thank you, Nora, don’t wait. Papa will take care of me now.”
Her father looked surprised, and not very well pleased to see her. Not that she was interrupting his business, for she saw that he was only reading the newspaper. She did not give him time to express his surprise in words, nor did she greet him in her usual fashion, but said hurriedly, “I came on business, papa.” She did not find it easy to say more for a minute; and something which he saw in her face kept her father silent also.
“Papa, do you know that Mrs Glencairn has not been paid for more than a year and a half? for Tessie and me, I mean.”
Her father stared at her in astonishment, not understanding for the moment what she meant.
“What nonsense, Frederica!” said he: “and what have you to do with it?”
“It is quite true, papa, and of course I have to do with it. Mrs Glencairn must be paid.”
“And did she send you here to say that to me? She has been paid. I cannot say that I admire either her taste or her judgment. I think we have had almost enough of madam the schoolmistress.”
“I think she must have had quite enough of us, papa. But she did not send me. She is not aware that I know about it. I overheard her speaking about it to Mistress Campbell.”
“Overheard! and you have been suffering the usual penalty of listeners.”
“No, papa, and I did not mean to listen. But I was so shocked. Mrs Glencairn and Miss Robina have been very kind to us, papa, and they must be paid.”
“I have not the least doubt that they have been paid, over and over again. Let them alone for that!”
“Did you pay them, papa?”
“No. I did not give the money to them, but I have a distinct recollection of its being provided.”
“So have I, papa. Mama was obliged to ask Mr St. Cyr for more money, and she said it was very painful, and she could not do it again.”
“All that relates to Mr St. Cyr’s connection with our affairs is painful. You are old enough now, Frederica, to understand that it was never with my consent that he had to do with—with our affairs—with your grandfather’s property. I can do nothing. If things go wrong, it is not my fault. I protested against such an arrangement at the time, and—and washed my hands of them. And it is a matter with which you can have nothing to do.”
“Except about Mrs Glencairn’s money, papa. I must have to do with that, you know. Tell me what I must do, papa.”
“You can do nothing. There must be some mistake. A year and a half! It would be a large sum.”
“Yes, indeed! But, papa, don’t you think it possible that—that Mrs Ascot may have made some mistake?”
“She may certainly have made a mistake. I will see that it is put right. But you can do nothing, and you must not try. You will only make matters worse.”
There was silence for some time, and then Frederica said hesitatingly,—
“I am afraid, papa—that Mrs Ascot is not a very good woman.”
Mr Vane looked at her without speaking.
“I mean that she is too clever to make mistakes—that she must know if—if there is anything wrong about the money.”
“She is clever, but she is not too clever to make mistakes. She has made one now—she will find.”
“I think so, papa. Mrs Glencairn could not have been mistaken. She must know, of course. And, papa—it is not pleasant to speak about—but I don’t think Mrs Ascot is nice with mama and Lina. I mean she is not considerate.”
“That will do, Fred. We won’t discuss Madame Ascot. It was not by my will that she was brought into the house. Your grandfather—but I can’t speak to you about all that. Go home, or go back to your school. This matter shall be cleared up and put right.”
“To-day, papa? Papa, I shall be ashamed to look at Miss Robina till this money is paid. Can you not give it to me to take back to-day? Please do, dear papa.”
Mr Vane laughed a very unpleasant laugh.
“Don’t be foolish, Fred. I have not the money to give you to-day, or any day. I must speak to Mrs Ascot: there must be some mistake. She and your mother have always managed these things, with Mr St. Cyr’s help. I can do nothing.”
“But, papa—” entreated Frederica.
“Hush, say nothing more. As Mrs Glencairn said nothing to you, you are not supposed to know anything about the matter. Go back to school at once. Or are you going home for the day?”
“I meant to do so, but I don’t wish to trouble mama. I might speak to Mrs Ascot.”
“Much good that would do,” said her father, with his unpleasant laugh. “No, I will speak to her. Go now, there are people coming in.”
As the door opened to admit some one, Frederica passed out, but she did not turn her face towards home, nor towards school.
“I will go to Cousin Cyprien,” said she to herself. “I cannot trouble mama, and I cannot go back to Mrs Glencairn’s without some hope that it will all be set right. Papa so soon forgets.”
And not giving herself time to lose courage by thinking about the difficulties before her, she hastened away. But when she found herself in the dismal hall into which Mr St. Cyr’s office opened, and from which the staircase to his house led, she wished herself well away again. It was late in the morning by this time, but Mr St. Cyr had not come down to his office, the man who opened the door told her, and Frederica went upstairs with a beating heart. She thought she had come at a wrong time, when she opened the door, and found that Mr St. Cyr was not alone. But her friend hastened to welcome her, and though he expressed some surprise at the sight of her, he expressed pleasure also.
“Only I fear you must be in trouble again,” said he, kindly. “Is it something very serious this time? Ah! yes, your face says so. It is not—is it Prickly Polly? But first let me introduce my brother to you, whom you ought to know. Jerome, this is Theresa’s daughter—Mr St. Hubert’s grandchild.”
“It must be Theresa herself, I think,” said the dark man, who rose and held out his hand.
“No, I am Frederica. Theresa is younger than I.”
“She is very like her, is she not? Just the same bright little creature. But she is not bright to-day. Tell me what is the matter, my little cousin.”
Frederica hesitated. She did not like to speak before Mr St. Cyr’s brother. She would not have liked to speak before anyone, but, as she told Tessie afterwards, the Reverend Mr St. Cyr had not a nice face. It was a face that somehow made her think of a mask, and she looked with a little startled curiosity at him, wondering what might be behind it.
“It brings back your youth, does it not? She is very like what her mother was in those days. But her mother is changed. Ah! so sadly changed,” said Mr St. Cyr, with a sigh.
But the priest did not answer a word.
“Well, what can I do for you?” said Mr St. Cyr, turning to Frederica. “Who has been troubling you this time? Not Prickly Polly, sorely? I thought I had settled her affairs the other day. What is it now?”
“Did you?” said Frederica, eagerly. “And was it very disagreeable?”
“Well, for her, rather so, I fancy. What is it now? Is it a secret? And does Madame the Schoolmistress let you go here and there about the city by yourself? She thinks you ‘sensible,’ I suppose?”
Frederica shook her head.
“I was not alone. Nora took me to papa’s office, and then I came here. It is not a secret, but—”
The Rev. Mr St. Cyr sat down, and took up a book.
“Regard him as if he were made of wood,” said Cousin Cyprien, laughing; “and now tell me all your trouble.”
“I don’t know whether I ought to tell you, but I don’t know what else to do.”
And then she told him all her trouble; how she had heard by accident that Mrs Glencairn had received nothing for their board and education for a long time, and how she had gone to her father, and he had been angry, and said he could do nothing, and then she added,—
“I think Mrs Ascot, must know. Do you think Madame Ascot is a trustworthy person, Cousin Cyprien? Of course she is disagreeable, and cross, and all that; but not to be trustworthy is something quite different. And papa says it was not his fault that she came to our house. Do you think her a good woman. Mr St. Cyr? Is she trustworthy?”
He listened to her story without a word, only smiling and nodding now and then till she came to the end and asked those questions about Mrs Ascot. Then he looked uneasily towards his brother, but his brother never lifted his eyes from his book, nor seemed to hear a word.
“We must not speak evil of her, nor accuse her without sufficient grounds,” said he gravely.
“No,” said Frederica faintly. “But I do not mean because of this altogether. She is not always considerate towards mama, I am afraid, and mama is ill, and—alone. But I need not trouble you about it. Pardon me if I ought not to have come to you.”
“You did right to come to me. I can set right all this mysterious affair. You shall not hear of it again. Of course you are to come to me.”
“But, Cousin Cyprien,” said Frederica, taking courage from his kindness, “ought I to need to come to you always? Is there not something wrong that might be remedied?”
“My dear child, almost everything in the world is wrong, and I very much fear must always remain so. But this can be remedied, and it shall be on one condition. You are not to trouble yourself about it. Are you the little girl who the other day nearly overturned me? You look like an old woman with that naughty wrinkle in your forehead.”
Frederica laughed.
“What should I do, if I might not come to you? And yet I ought not to need to come. There must be something wrong,” added she, the naughty wrinkle coming to her forehead again. “Was it grandpapa who put it all wrong, as papa says? or is it Madame Ascot? or perhaps papa himself?” added she, with some hesitation.
Mr St. Cyr answered her gravely.
“My little girl, we will not ask. I will set this matter right—no, not to-day, but soon, and you must not think of it any more.”
His promise sounded very different in Frederica’s ears, from the promise her father had made. Mr St. Cyr did not forget. Still she lingered as if she had more to say, and as if she were not quite sure whether she ought to say it.
“Do you wish Mrs Ascot to stay in our house, Cousin Cyprien? Papa said to-day it was not by his wish that she ever came. Do you like her, Mr St. Cyr? Have you confidence in her? I am quite sure I could make mama and Selina much happier than she makes them.”
“This terrible Madame Ascot!” said Mr St. Cyr with a shrug. “No, I don’t think I like her very much, or have much confidence in her. But we will not speak of her. When you are old enough and wise enough to take care of your mama and your sister, and the housekeeping, and all that, we shall dispense with madame altogether, I fancy. But this must be a secret till the right time comes, and we shall say no more about it.”
“I am almost old enough, am I not? Well, I will wait patiently.”
“Good child! that will be best,” said Mr St. Cyr.
Then he showed her several curious things that were in the cabinet, and a fine picture he had lately purchased, and then he rang for some fruit, and was very attentive and full of ceremony in serving her; and then he went downstairs with her, when she went away.
“Good day, my little cousin,” said he. “Be sure you come to me always. I wish I could put aside all trouble from you as easily as I can put aside this one. Though, indeed, I may have vexation more than enough, before I am done with it,” he muttered, as he went upstairs to his brother again.
And he did have vexation, and so had Mrs Ascot, and Mr Vane did not escape without his share. But Frederica had no more. In a day or two she gathered from various sources that Mrs Glencairn had been paid in full, and with interest, and that was enough for her. She never heard another word more about the matter.