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, you can help 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 loved me, and gave Himself for me” 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.”