Chapter Five.
The happy holidays passed all too soon away, and it was not till the very last of them that Frederica went with her bundle of papers to the office of Mr St. Cyr.
“Mama could write a note and send Dixen, of course,” said she to Theresa. “But in a matter so troublesome every care should be taken, and I shall go myself.”
She almost wished she had not, however, when she reached his house. The outer door was standing open, and instead of ascending a step or two as to most other houses in the street, one went down a step to the threshold, and when that was passed, the dark and gloomy hall looked not at all inviting to Frederica’s eyes. It was too late to think of running away now, however, and she sat down in the dingy outer office to wait till her name was taken in to Mr St. Cyr. Her courage revived when he came out to her; for he welcomed her warmly, and asked her into his private office with great ceremony, quite as if she had been a grownup young lady, she told Theresa afterwards.
He took the papers, which the made haste to present as an excuse for her coming, and examined them carefully for a minute or two. He nodded his head and shrugged his shoulders, and said mademoiselle should have no more trouble with them, unless he were much mistaken. And then Frederica knew that the right thing for her to do would be to rise and thank him, and go away. But she did not. She sat looking round the dim room upon the numberless shelves and drawers and pigeon-holes, and then through the dusty window into a narrow court shut in by high Walls—as dismal a place as one could imagine. Her eyes were very grave when they came back again to Mr St. Cyr’s face.
“Well, my little cousin, what do you think of it all?” asked he. “Do you live here always, Mr St. Cyr?”
“Yes; here by day, and upstairs at night.”
“And do you live alone? Have you no one else in this house?”
“I have old Babette, whom you saw at the door.”
“And no one else?”
“Is not that enough?”
“And has there never been any one else? And are you happy here?” asked Frederica, wonder struggling with the gravity in her face.
“Ah, well! as to that—like the rest of the world, I suppose,” said Mr St. Cyr, with his wonderful shrug; but there came a look of pain over his face that startled the little girl, and made her wish that she had gone away before, so she rose hastily, and said,—
“Adieu—and—pardon me, Cousin Cyprien.”
“To meet soon, my little cousin,” said he, bowing over her offered hand, “as if I were quite grown up,” thought Frederica again, in the midst of her confusion.
He went with her through the outer room and through the dim hall to the street door, and then a new thought seemed to strike him.
“You will think I am a wicked old spider sitting here in the dark to catch unwary flies, if I let you go so. You shall come upstairs to see that the sun shines here too, and that I am not altogether unlike my fellow-men, though I am quite alone. Come upstairs, my child.”
Frederica gave one glance upward, and another into the sunny street. She would much rather have gone away, but Mr St. Cyr was half-way up by this time, and so she could only follow. The stairs were as dim as the hall, and she saw nothing distinctly till she found herself in a large but not very lofty room. Mr St. Cyr drew aside the heavy curtains, and let in the sunshine.
“And now you shall sit here till I see what my Babette can find for your refreshment;” said he.
There were a great many beautiful things in the room. Though the furniture was dark and old-fashioned, it was very rich and handsome of its kind. The curtains were of the richest damask, of a shade between crimson and brown, and the carpet was of the same colours, and so thick and soft that never a foot-fall could be heard in the room. There were vases and other ornaments on the mantel-piece, and a quaintly carved cabinet opposite, whose open doors showed many strange and beautiful things. There were pictures on the walls which made Frederica think of the great churches in which she had sometimes been.
It was not a pleasant room, notwithstanding all these beautiful things; but quite as gloomy, though in a different way, as the office downstairs. She did not move about to examine any of them, but sat looking at a lovely picture of a woman with a child in her arms, over which the morning sunshine fell. By-and-by Mr St. Cyr came in, followed by a little old woman in an odd dress, who carried a silver tray in her hand. On the tray was a china plate, with a bunch of grapes, which she set down on a little table at her master’s bidding, and then left the room.
“And so you do not think it well to be alone, my little cousin,” said Mr St. Cyr, when he had given the grapes into Frederica’s hand. “Will you not come and stay with me then?”
Frederica did not answer for a moment. “You have learned enough of things you know,” said he, with his odd smile. “If we can persuade Mr Vane to let you leave school, will you come and stay here with me?”
Frederica shook her head.
“I could not leave mama. She needs me.”
“But she has your sisters, and I am quite alone. Your mother used to come here when she was a child.”
“Did she? Yes, she told us so. That must have been a long time ago.”
“A long time ago! And so you will not come?”
“Papa says he will send me home to England to school for a year or two, after I am done with Mrs Glencairn.”
“And would you like that?”
“No, not at all. Mama would miss me so much, and Selina. But I don’t intend to make myself unhappy about it. Very likely papa may forget all about it again.”
“He forgets with ease some things,” said Mr St. Cyr: “let us hope he may forget this.”
“I should not like to go, because of mama,” repeated Frederica.
“And that is a good reason why you will not come and stay with me. Ah, well! I do not blame you. This is not the place for a bright little flower like you to bloom in. I must still be alone, I suppose.”
“But I will come sometimes and see you, and so will Tessie, if you would like us to do so,” said Frederica, rising to go: “and I shall certainly come if I fall into any more troubles. You said I was to do so, did you not, Cousin Cyprien?”
“Surely, I shall expect you.”
“And I have come already with these tiresome papers. And ah! I had forgotten. There were several things I wished to say about them.”
“You need not say them,” said Mr St. Cyr: “I shall understand them perfectly, I do not doubt, and they shall not trouble you any more, nor your mama either. I only wish all her troubles could be as easily ended as these shall be.”
“But, Mr St. Cyr,” said Frederica, pausing at the door, and growing very red, “mama does not wish that you should pay these things. Has not mama enough of money?”
“Assuredly, she has ample means. I have no thought of paying these debts. Do not alarm yourself.”
“You are not angry with me, are you, Cousin Cyprien?” asked Frederica, wistfully.
“Angry! By no means, my little cousin. Why should I be angry? And now, remember you are to come again, you and your sister. Ah! how bright the sunshine is!” added he, as he opened the door.
Yes, it was almost dazzling at first, after the dimness within. Frederica walked slowly home, not able, even in the bright sunshine, to shake off the quieting influence of the old man’s solitary home.
“I wonder why it seemed so strange?” said she to herself, “it must have been the silence. I wonder if any other voice is ever heard in that room. He must have visitors. And mama used to go there when she was a little girl, with grandpapa, I suppose. If I were to do anything wrong, or were afraid of an enemy, I think I would go there to hide myself. But to live there always!—no, I could not do that; it is too silent and sad.”
“Mama,” she asked that night when she had told them of her visit, “was it always so still and gloomy at Cousin Cyprien’s when you used to go there? Was he always alone in those days?”
“I do not remember it as gloomy or silent. Mr St. Cyr’s mother lived there then, and there were a great many beautiful things in the house. His brother was there too sometimes, but he was not a cheerful person.”
“There are beautiful things there now. The cabinet is full of them, and there are the pictures on the walls,” and she went on to name other things she had seen: “but still I wonder that he can content himself there, it is so solitary and silent.”
“Mama,” said Tessie, “I don’t think it says much for Fred’s good sense that she should talk in that way about Mr St. Cyr and his home. Very likely there are crowds of visitors there every night, though there was no one there then.” Frederica shook her head. “No, you would not say so if you went there. Only very old people or shadows could ever be content there.”
“Mama, listen to her! Is she sensible?”
“Well, perhaps it is foolish,” said Frederica candidly. “But all the same I cannot help being sorry for Cousin Cyprien. What does he take pleasure in, mama?”
“My dear, a man like Mr St. Cyr has many sources of interest and pleasure that a young girl like you cannot be supposed to know anything about, or even to understand, if you knew them. I do not think he needs your pity or sympathy very much. He is very religious, I believe.”
“And religion is enough to content some people,” said Tessie flippantly. “You know you told me the other day that Miss Baines’ religion made her quite patient and happy, even when she was in great suffering, and not afraid even of death; and perhaps it suits Mr St. Cyr to be religious too.”
“Yes; but then his religion must be quite different from Miss Baines’.”
“Oh, well! it may be just as good, or it may suit him just as well. I think you are very foolish, and so does Selina.”
But Selina said nothing. She listened always to her sister’s talk, and “thought about it afterwards,” as Tessie had said. Now she was repeating to herself, “Patient and happy even in great suffering; that must be a good and beautiful thing.” And many thoughts did she give to Miss Baines and her sufferings, and her patience, before she saw her sisters again.
It was a beautiful sight, if there had been anyone to see it—the mother and her daughters as they sat there together on that last night before Frederica and Theresa went back to school. And yet it would have been a sorrowful sight to one who knew their history and their affairs, and who loved them and wished them well. For, except the dear love they bore to one another, there was not a single element of permanence in the happiness they enjoyed together.
That the hour of separation was drawing near, none who looked in Mrs Vane’s face could fail to see. It was coming slowly, so slowly that she, who had almost forgotten what it was to be quite well and free from pain, had come to think that her illness was not of a kind that sooner or later ends in death. The thought that it might be so—that she must leave her children, young, without experience, every danger doubled by their own beauty and their grandfather’s wealth, was a very painful one, but she put it from her, whenever it could be put away. Death was terrible to think of for their sakes. Yes, and terrible for herself too; for of the hope which sustains the Christian alike in life and in death, she knew nothing.
It is difficult to conceive of ignorance so utter as hers on all religious subjects. Her mother had not lived long enough to teach her the little that she herself understood of the religion of her people, and her father had had no religion. During the first years of her married life, she had sometimes gone to church with her husband, but she had never been much interested in what she heard, or tried to understand it. It had been a mere form with her; as indeed it had been always with her husband. She knew nothing of the way in which a sinner must be prepared for death, that must come some time, and which might be near, and there were times when the thought of this made her afraid.
Her daughters knew little more than she did. When the idea of sending them to school was first proposed, Mrs Ascot desired that it should be to one of the convents of the city, and probably there they would have been sent, had not Mr St. Cyr earnestly desired it too. His wish was enough to make Mr Vane decide against it, so bitter was his dislike, and they were sent to Mrs Glencairn’s instead. Their religions teaching while there was, at their father’s request, committed to the charge of the English teacher, Miss Pardie, and her instructions were not of a kind to make much impression on the minds of volatile girls, with whom she was not a favourite. The Scripture lessons which they shared with the other pupils, were too often learned and repeated as a task, and forgotten.
So neither the mother nor the children had any knowledge of the true way to find happiness, either in this world or the next. A vague dread and fear had come to Mrs Vane now and then during all the years of her illness, but she had tried to put them from her. They had come oftener of late, but she strove to put them from her still.
“Patient and happy in the midst of great suffering, and not afraid even of death.” Many, many times in the days when the two girls had gone, and she was left to the quiet of their solitary days, did these words come back to her again.