Chapter Eleven.
In the beginning of March, there came a letter to Mr Vane, announcing the approaching marriage of his second daughter Cecilia, and begging him to be present at the ceremony, which was to take place at the end of April. Something had been said by Mr Vane, every year for the last ten, about going home to England; but sometimes for one reason, and sometimes for another, he had never carried out his design. This announcement and invitation induced him to take the matter into serious consideration this time, and Mrs Brandon’s suggestion that the opportunity would be a good one to take Frederica home for the completion of her education, decided him to make arrangements at once for going. Indeed, he by-and-by convinced himself, and endeavoured to convince others, that it was for Frederica’s sake, and not at all for his own pleasure, that the voyage was to be undertaken, and thus especially was it represented to Mr St. Cyr.
Frederica was not so pained by her father’s sudden determination as she would have been in the autumn. Of course, the thought of school was not quite agreeable to her after the winter she had spent, but there was the voyage, and possibly a gay wedding to come first; and if it had not been for the thought of leaving her mother and Selina, the prospect would not have been disagreeable. And she could not help thinking that they would miss her less than they would have done six months before.
But it did not seem so to them. The thought of losing her was almost more than her mother could bear. But there was nothing to be said: discussion would make no difference to Mr Vane’s decision. There was little time for discussion or preparation. All that Frederica needed, could be got as well in England, her father said, and there was no time to lose.
A suitable person to take charge of the home, and of all household matters during the year, had to be sought, and through the kind exertions of Mr Jerome St. Cyr, such a one was found, a very pleasing person she seemed, and she came highly recommended. She was a large fair woman, with a pale face that was very pleasing when she smiled, and her eyes were at the same time kind and searching. Her voice in speaking, and her manner and movements, were very soft and gentle, and she was, Frederica though the very opposite of Mrs Ascot in all respects.
But her gentleness did not give one the idea that she was weak. On the contrary, she was very strong and firm, as well as gentle, as they all had an opportunity of seeing, even the first day of her coming among them. For the two boys were ill when she came. They had taken cold, it was supposed, and little Hubert, from his persistent refusal to take his medicine, seemed to be becoming very ill indeed. But there was an end to all this, as soon as ever Miss Agnace understood the matter. In a moment the refractory little lad was placed in her lap, and by some extraordinary exertion of skill and will on her part, the bitter draught was swallowed by him, and he was laid quietly and comfortably in bed again. Frederica looked on with mingled astonishment and admiration.
“I have been accustomed to be with sick children,” said Miss Agnace quietly.
“I wonder if that is the way she would take with mama or Selina,” said Frederica to herself. “I can easily imagine her taking me up and dealing with me in that peremptory way; but mama, who must be so gently managed—oh! how can I ever go away, and leave her? oh! I cannot?” and though she knew her tears were vain, she wept bitterly for a long time.
She had an opportunity very soon of knowing how Miss Agnace would deal with her in little Hubert’s place. For the illness of her brothers proved to be not mere colds, as was at first supposed, but a severe form of one of those diseases of childhood, which generally pass through a whole household when one has been seized. In a few days Frederica was very ill, much more ill than either of the boys had been, and helpless, and miserable, she was entirely given up to the care of Miss Agnace; for neither her mother nor Selina was permitted to enter her room.
Gentle and firm. That exactly described her nurse’s treatment. She was taken entirely out of her own hands, which was indeed the very best thing that could have happened to her, and found herself yielding in all things to the firm and gentle rule of Miss Agnace. She was not always quite herself, and slept and woke, and tossed and murmured, with the vaguest possible idea of what was happening around her, or how the time was passing. She had the strangest dreams and fancies, and said things, and asked questions, which her nurse could only meet by her calm surprised look and silence.
Once she saw, just within the door of her room, some one whom she at first supposed was the doctor, but then it seemed to be Mr St. Cyr’s brother who was speaking with Miss Agnace, and she thought she heard him say that she must not go to England with her father, and that God had sent this sickness to keep her at home. She said to herself she was surely dreaming, and shut her eyes; and when she opened them again, there was only Miss Agnace offering her the bitter medicine with a smile.
And so one day passed after another, till the day fixed for their departure drew near. Nothing could be clearer, however, than that no departure was possible for Frederica. Nor was there much hope of her being so far recovered as to be able to leave at the latest day that would admit of their reaching England in time for the wedding. So Mr Vane spoke rather vaguely of making arrangements for her to go by some other opportunity, and set out alone. Frederica did not know whether she was glad or sorry at being left at home. She was too restless and weak to take pleasure in anything, and longed so for a change of some kind, that she could very easily have persuaded herself that she was disappointed at being left. But she had no thought to think about it or about anything for a time. She could only toss restlessly on her bed, or sit listlessly in the large easy-chair, when she was at last permitted to rise.
Her little brothers were well and strong by this time, and came to see her every day. They tried to wait upon her, and to amuse her gently and quietly, but they tired her inexpressibly, and she could not endure them long. Her mother came ice a day to see her, but she was only allowed to remain a few minutes with her, and Selina was not permitted to come near her, lest she also should take the disease. So she was left almost entirely with Miss Agnace, who was very kind to her, she told her mother, who never failed to ask the question when she came.
Yes, she was very kind; that did not prevent the days from being long and tedious; and Frederica, forgetting that she had been counted a young lady all the winter, grew childish, and petulant, and ill to please. But Miss Agnace never lost patience, and was never otherwise than gentle with her, even when she was most firm in making her do all that the doctor desired.
Books were entirely forbidden. The doctor said her eyes were quite too weak to be used, and that her sight might be permanently injured if she were to read much now. Miss Agnace in this matter obeyed the doctor to the letter, and carried every book—even little Hubert’s large-print Testament—away.
Now and then, as she grew stronger, Miss Agnace told her stories, to which she liked to listen. They were almost all about very good people who lived a great many years ago—wonderful stories some of them were, “If one only could believe them,” Frederica used to say to herself. One day she said it to Miss Agnace, and for the first time her fair still face lost its calm, and looked angry.
“Well, but that does sound rather like a fairy story, now doesn’t it?” said Frederica, moved from her usual indifference by the unwonted sight of the nurse’s indignation. “Of course it does not really mean that the loaves of bread all turned to roses in the lady’s lap, when her cruel husband made her afraid. It is an allegory, is it not? Not exactly to be received as having really happened. It is a very pretty story, and you must not be angry, because I did not mean to offend you.”
All this was not said at once, but with a pause now and then.
“Angry! no, why should I be angry? You know no better, poor child, poor unhappy child!”
Frederica did not consider herself particularly happy just at this time, but it was not at all for the reason that Miss Agnace seemed to intimate.
“Why do you say so? Why am I so unhappy?” asked she.
“Because you have no religion,” said Miss Agnace solemnly; “because you do not believe.”
It was perfectly true, and Frederica acknowledged in her heart, but not in the sense or for the reason that Miss Agnace seemed to imagine; so she said lightly,—
“A great many religious people refuse to believe such tales as these. They are very pretty, you know, and perhaps they have valuable lessons, but as for having, really happened! Such things don’t happen now.”
“That is not true. Such things do happen still. Not frequently, but when God has a purpose to accomplish, a blessing to convey.”
“Tell me something that has happened lately,” said Frederica, forgetting all else in her eagerness for a story.
And so she did, and sometimes Frederica was interested, and sometimes she was amused. She heard of lame people who had been made to walk, of pictures which had spoken, of images which had wept, and many more of the same kind.
“But I don’t quite see the good of it, even if these things were all true,” she said at last.
“My child,” said Miss Agnace gravely, “they are true. We have for their truth the authority of men to whom a lie is impossible. Do not say, ‘If they are true.’”
“And does it make you happy to believe these things?” asked Frederica.
“Happy?” repeated Miss Agnace; “can any one be happy who does not believe? Are you happy? Were you happy when you were so ill, when you thought you might die? Were you not afraid?”
“Was I so ill as that?” asked Frederica, startled. “I never thought of dying. If I had, I daresay I should have been afraid. Did mama think so, and Selina? How sorry they must have been! And papa went away all the same.”
She had no heart for any more wonderful stories that day. She lay quite silent for a long time after that, but she was not resting or at ease, for her face was flushed, and she grew restless and impatient; nothing pleased her, and she thought the day would never be done. She had all the impatience to herself, however, for Miss Agnace was as gentle and helpful as ever, and bathed her hot hands and head, and soothed her till she lost the sense of her troubles in sleep.
But another day came after that, and many days that had to be got through somehow. Her mother could not be much with her, and her brothers tired her. The cold March winds made it not safe for her to drive out, and poor Fred longed for Tessie, and would have given half her treasures to be transported to Mistress Campbell’s garret for a single day. And thus thinking of Eppie, and of “the days of her youth,” of which she used to tell her, it came into Frederica’s mind to wonder what had happened to Miss Agnace when she was a child. For though she had talked much with her, both by night and by day, she had a way of falling back on one theme—the good deeds which the saints had done, and which all people ought to strive to do: and all this grew tedious when it was repeated over and over again, and Frederica longed for something else, and so she asked her,—
“When were you born, Miss Agnace? Have you brothers and sisters? Tell me about the days when you were young, as Eppie used to do. Has anything wonderful ever happened to you?”
Miss Agnace looked at her in smiling surprise.
“I have nothing to tell. Nothing wonderful ever happened to me.”
“But still tell me about your childhood.”
Miss Agnace told her a good many things, but certainly nothing wonderful. She was one of a large family. She had been sent to a convent school at the age of nine, and remained a pupil till she was nearly seventeen. There had been no incidents in her school life. Everything went on quietly, and happily that was all. Yes, she had favourite companions. One died, and one married, and the best loved one of all was lost on a steamer on one of the great lakes. She could tell no more than that.
“And since you left school?” asked Frederica.
“Nothing has happened to me since then. I have had a busy life, and have been content with it,” said Miss Agnace, rising to leave the room. She was away a good while; but when she came back, carrying Frederica’s tea on a tray, the young girl said, as though there had been no pause,—
“Well, and what have you been busy about and content with since then?”
Miss Agnace did not answer immediately. It was evident that she did not wish to continue the conversation, only she did not know how to help it. She was not a clever person, and she could not “make up” an answer in a moment. So she said,—“I have been nursing sick people much of the time—sometimes in one place and sometimes in another. Yes, I have been a good deal in St. P.’s Hospital.”
“Oh!” said Frederica eagerly, “you are one of the sisters?”
“I am a nursing sister, yes.”
“And were they willing to let you come here? You do not wear the sisters’ dress. It was a very good thing you came here. What should we have done all this time? Was it Mr St. Cyr who sent you? Do you like to stay here, better than in the Hospital?”
Frederica could not expect that all her questions should be answered. Miss Agnace looked relieved as she listened to her.
“Yes, it was Mr St. Cyr who sent me. I like to stay here very well. I am glad to be of use.”
“You are very kind. I ought to call you Sister Agnace, ought I not? or ‘Ma tante,’ as the convent girls do? How odd that you should be here! And have you been nursing sick people all your life? You must have seen a great many sorrowful sights.”
“Yes, a great many sorrowful sights,” repeated Miss Agnace gravely; “but not all sorrowful. I have seen the joyful ending of many a troubled life, which is a happy thing to see.”
And she told her that night, and afterwards, about many sorrowful and joyful things, sickness and pain, grief and disappointment, and the blessed endings of all these; and a new view of life was presented to Frederica as she listened. She was getting better by this time, but not rapidly, and she did not grow cheerful and bright, as she ought to have done, when she was able to go out with her little brothers in the fine April days. Mrs Brandon came to see her, and would have taken her home with her for a few days, for a change, but because of baby it was not considered safe to do so, and she was obliged to content herself with the company of Miss Agnace and an hour’s reading now and then.
She was not very happy these days. She did not look back with much satisfaction on the winter. It had been agreeable enough in passing, and she had not been taught that such a life was wrong, or might lead to wrong—that “she who liveth in pleasure is dead while she liveth.” But somehow she was not content with herself. She had a feeling that she had “been weighed in the balance, and found wanting;” that she had not proved herself wise, or sensible, or discreet, as she had sometimes been called; that she had been seeking her own pleasure rather than the comfort of her mother and Selina. She had even been able to look forward to the prospect of leaving them for a long time, not without pain, certainly, but still with a vague expectation of enjoying the change for herself. She had failed them, and thinking about it made her more unhappy than she had ever been in all her life before.
But the root of her trouble lay deeper than any of these things. A year ago she had pleased herself with the thought that she wished to become religious, to become a Christian, not in name merely, but in reality. She then wished this less for herself than for her mother. She had felt the need less for herself, because she was young, and strong, and happy. But she had been near death, they told her, since then; and now, as her thoughts went back to that time, she could not but ask herself, What if she had died? would it have been the end of all trouble to her, as Miss Agnace said it was to so many of the suffering poor creatures, whose eyes she had closed? She hoped so. She had never done anything very wrong. She wished to be good.
But she was not religious. At least, she had not the religion that would make her happy in the midst of suffering and in the prospect of death. And when she thought of it in this way, she was not so sure that it would have been well with her if she had died.
“But how am I to know?” said she, as she had many times said before. “People think so differently. Eppie said, If I asked Him, God would teach me, or send me a teacher. I have asked Him, though not so often as I might have done. But I will ask Him. Perhaps He has sent Miss Agnace.”
She sat up in the easy-chair in which she had been reclining.
“Miss Agnace, tell me about your religion. There are so many different sorts, you know; and I want to know about yours.”
Miss Agnace shook her head gravely.
“There is only one true religion—one true Church. There are many sects, but there is but one Church.”
“And that is yours? Eppie thought it was hers. But tell me about yours.”
She had plenty to tell her, such as it was. She told her about the only true Church, the only place of happiness and safety. She told her about its ceremonies, and worship, and sacraments. She told her about confession and penance, and of the blessedness of those who have their sins forgiven. She told her about Mary and the saints in heaven, and about our blessed Lord who may be approached through them. She said a great deal about the good works of all kinds that would win the favour of these. Above all, she insisted on the necessity of submitting implicitly to the requirements of the Church, of having no will of one’s own in such matters, and spoke severely of the pride and folly of those who ventured to take the law of God, and interpret it for themselves, without availing themselves of the teaching of those whom God had appointed for the work. She grew very earnest as she went on, but she did not speak very wisely. She certainly did not say anything that touched the heart, or gave light to the eyes of Frederica.
It is possible that if the Rev. Mr St. Cyr had known the state of Frederica’s mind, or if he could have contemplated the possibility of such an opportunity occurring for influencing her heart or her opinions, it would not have been Sister Agnace who would have been sent to Mrs Vane’s house. It would have been some one whose natural powers and acquirements better fitted her for the work of proselytism, which was, indeed, the work he had in view. But that was to come later, as time and events might permit. In the meantime Miss Agnace was a perfect instrument for the work he had given her to do. She was a born nurse, with strong nerves and a tender heart, gentle, patient, and firm. She was disciplined, experienced, and skilful, just the nurse to make life tolerable, even pleasant, to a confined invalid like Mrs Vane, and this was the office for which she was intended.
She was not clever, nor intelligent, nor very devout, but she had learned obedience. She was not her own. She had no will or judgment of her own on many matters. Her confessor was her conscience. Her idea of right was implicit obedience to him, and to the Superior of her order. Whatever they required her to do was right in her esteem, and hitherto nothing had been required of her likely to suggest questions to her mind. Her life had hitherto been so busy and so useful as to leave her no time for questioning; and in coming to Mrs Vane’s, she was conscious only of a wish to do her duty to her employer on the one hand, and to those who had sent her on the other, without an idea that it might be difficult to do both.
She grew very fond of Frederica during these days. Frederica was impatient often, and grew tired alike of her silence, and of her soft voice murmuring on about the blessed saints; but Miss Agnace never lost patience with her. She saw that the young girl was not at rest, and that she wished for something else, even more than she longed for health or society; and she longed to lead her into those paths where alone, she believed, true happiness could be found—the paths of entire submission of heart and will and judgment to the only true Church. But she did not succeed, and she was not surprised. She was a humble woman, with no wise words on her tongue, by which she might convince or teach one brought up in error, or bring her into the right way, and one day she told her so, and added,—
“But you should let me send for some one who is wise, and who has authority; and when you are well, you must go with me to church, and tell all your troubled thoughts to the blessed Mother. You should let me ask the Rev. Mr St. Cyr to come and talk with you.”
“I should like to see almost any one, it is so dull,” said Frederica with a sigh, “but I don’t like the Rev. Mr St. Cyr. Oh! I daresay he is very good and all that,” added she, as she saw that Miss Agnace looked displeased, “but I don’t know him, and he certainly has not a nice face.”
“But that is a small matter,” said Miss Agnace severely. “He is wise, and he has authority, and he would know what to say to you. He would show you the truth.”
Frederica was by no means sure that she cared about having the truth shown to her by Mr Jerome St. Cyr, or that her father would be pleased to have him visit her.
“I like you to teach me far better than I should like Mr Jerome St. Cyr,” said Frederica, “because, I know you believe what you say; and besides, I can trust you. And I always feel uncomfortable with Mr Jerome.”
“You may trust Mr Jerome. He loves you dearly,” said Miss Agnace, but she said no more at that time.
She quite believed that Mr Jerome loved them, and sought their good. Was he not interested in all that took place among them? It never came into her thoughts that she was betraying confidence, or acting in any way unworthily, by telling him every incident of their daily life. She was not always aware how much, in answer to his apparently careless questioning, she made known; for there was little to tell—trifling details of their daily life, incidents that had no significance, except as they tended to show the tastes or tempers of the children of the house, which could only interest one who loved them, as she was sure he did.
By-and-by he permitted her to see that he had a definite motive and plan in listening to all the details which seemed so trifling. He wished to gather from them some means of judging in what manner they might best be influenced in the right direction, should an opportunity to do so present itself at some future time.
Miss Agnace strongly desired for these children and their mother, that they should be brought to a knowledge of the truth, and she assented when the priest told her that it was a blessed thing for her to be permitted to aid, even indirectly, in this good work. She did not doubt the excellence of his motives, or his right to claim her help, and she never thought of refusing obedience to his lightest word. But when Frederica said, “I can trust you,” a painful sense of being not worthy of the girl’s confidence came upon her for a moment. It was only for a moment, however; at least, it was only till she spoke to Father Jerome about it—then she believed, as he told her, that it was a temptation of Satan to hinder her from doing God’s work, and she prayed and strove against it with success.
Soon after this Mr Jerome came to see Frederica, but he brought none of the strong arguments, none of the words of wisdom, that Miss Agnace had promised. He made himself very agreeable to the young girl, told her amusing tales of the lands in which he had travelled, and made an attempt at teaching her the interesting game of “Tric trac,” before he went away. Frederica acknowledged that he was agreeable, and that his face was not so bad when he was speaking and smiling, as when it was quite at rest. He came often after that; but Frederica was soon able to leave her room and become one of the family again, so that she only shared his visits with the rest. He made himself very agreeable to them all. He was a fine musician, and proposed to teach Selina to play, as he had seen the blind taught in Europe; and of course this gave pleasure to them all. He laid himself out especially to please the boys, Charles and Hubert, and succeeded. Even Tessie who was inclined to be critical and even rude to him at first, yielded to his determined attempts to please.
Frederica would have liked him too, if it had not come into her mind that he was taking all this pains for some other reason than the mere wish to be agreeable. And the same thought came into the mind of her mother. Mrs Vane had some unpleasant remembrances of him, in the days when she had known him better than she did now, and his visits did not give her unmingled satisfaction. But they did not speak to one another about him for a long time. They enjoyed Selina’s pleasure, and the pleasure of the little boys, who shared his attention, and went with him on expeditions of various kinds. They had a very quiet time till Tessie came home for the holidays. Frederica was not long in throwing off all invalid habits, and growing well and strong again, but she was quieter and graver than she used to be before her illness, and the summer did not, even after Tessie’s returning, promise to be so merry or so idle as the last had been.