Chapter Seventeen.
Madame Precoe’s care in sending Sister Agnace into the garden because of old Dixen, had been more needed than she supposed, but it came too late to be of use. The old man had been busy near one of the walks as they entered, and he had answered their greeting very briefly. But as he stooped again he said hurriedly,—
“She thinks I am blind, but I can see her and the priest at the window looking out. Go round to the other side behind the hedge, young ladies dear, for I have something to tell you.”
He worked on for a little while after they had disappeared. He worked his way along the walk till he was out of sight of the windows, then coming close to them he said in a whisper, as though he feared to be overheard,—
“I have seen the little lads. Mrs Hearn told me something that made me think they were at the school with her boys. I never let on that it was not all right, and I watched afterwards, and saw them walking with the rest. But they do not always walk, and they are well watched.”
“I knew it was Charlie’s voice,” said Selina.
“Oh! Lena! Oh! Dixen! What shall we do?” said Frederica, clasping her hands.
“Fred love! God will take care of them.” But Selina herself grew pale.
“And is it true that Miss Tessie was sent away to the convent without a word to you two?” went on Dixen. “I’m sore feared that something must have happened to the master, or they would never have dared to do that.”
“But it cannot be that, Dixen. For the boys must have been there a long time. They were never sent back, I suppose,” said Frederica.
“And we have heard nothing from papa for a fortnight,” said Selina.
“It does not look well,” said Dixen. “But, children dear, you are not to fret. The boys are safe enough. No harm can come to them. We are living in the Queen’s dominions, thank God, and evil things can only be done in secret. And, Miss Fred dear, you should go to Mrs Brandon, and tell her about Miss Tessie and the little lads. And somebody that is wise in the law should be told. I would have gone myself, but nobody would heed such a story from the like of me. I am sore feared that no good is meant to you all. And the priests are everywhere, and have the means of making men do their will, that we know nothing of. Only here they must keep things quieter than in some places. But don’t let them smuggle you all off without a word. They will tell you it is your souls they would save, but it is your grandfather’s money they want as well. And here is that soft-spoken nun coming to hear what I may be saying. Be sure you go to your sister this very day.”
In his increasing excitement the old man used some words that are not put down, and he went muttering to himself away.
“Here is Miss Agnace,” said Frederica.
“We must be very quiet, and let her see nothing. Let us walk round the other way to the house,” said Selina.
“And I will go to Caroline. Anything is better than to sit still and think about it,” said Frederica excitedly.
They walked very quietly into the house, and went to their room.
“I will go at once, as Dixen said,” and Frederica’s preparations were soon made.
The room where Madame and the priest were sitting looked back upon the garden, so she got away without being seen. She had gone but a few steps, when she heard Dixen’s voice behind her.
“You are but weakly yet, Miss Frederica,” said he, when she waited for him, “and I will come with you. Just you go on without heeding me. I will keep in sight. Can you walk all the way, think you?”
Frederica was doubtful about it. She was excited, and trembling, hot and cold by turns. She was not very hopeful as to any help she could get from her sister. She was ill, and her husband was cautious, and not easily moved, and above all averse to interfere in matters where his right to do so was not acknowledged.
“And he will say it is Mr St. Cyr that is doing all this—and it is not impossible,” said Frederica, with a new pang of terror. “But I don’t think he would deceive us. I will go to the school myself. I will take them by surprise, and they will not have time to hide them as they must have done before, and I will take them away.”
It was not a very wise idea. Dixen shook his head, but Frederica persisted, and the old man followed her up the street. But before they had gone far they heard the hum of many voices, and the long line of boys came in sight. Frederica turned into a doorway, and waited till they passed, scanning each face eagerly. They were for the most part bigger boys than her brothers. She looked in vain for the face of either of them, and stood gazing blankly after the long line as it passed down the street. The gate stood open, and she went and looked in. The side door stood open also.
“Dixen,” said she hurriedly, “I am going in. They cannot do me any harm, and I may see Charlie, or little Hubert.”
But this seemed a dreadful thing to Dixen.
“Miss Frederica, I cannot think it would be well to go. No one knows what might happen,” said he in distress.
“I am not afraid, Dixen. Yes, I am a little afraid. But I have prayed to God, and so has Selina, and He will take care of me. Wait at the corner; and if I don’t come out in half an hour; you must tell some one, and come for me.”
But she did not keep him half that time. She went slowly up the steps and in at the door. She did not go forward into the wide hall as she had done when they came with Father Jerome, but turned at once, and went up a narrow stair, down which the sound of voices came. Still following the sound, she came to a room where a score or two of little boys were amusing themselves. They did not see her at first, and she stood watching them for a little while. She did not see her brothers, but she called softly several times,—
“Charlie! Hubert! are you here?” And as she spoke, a little hand touched hers, and she turned to meet the wondering eyes of her youngest brother. Without a word, she drew him outside of the room, and along the passage toward the stairs.
“Where is Charlie?” uttered she with difficulty. “No, we must not look for him. I have one safe, and I can come again for Charlie.”
It does not sound possible that this should have happened, but it is perfectly true. The stairs were passed, and the hall, and they ran across the yard, and into the street, and no eye had seen them. At least, no hand had stopped them. It would not have been easy to stop them, Frederica thought; for her courage rose to the occasion the moment she felt the touch of her little brother’s hand. It was a happy thing that no one tried. Dixen rubbed his eyes as they passed him without a word, but he lost not a moment in following them. After they had crossed a good many streets, they paused, and he overtook them.
“Where shall we go? Not home. To Mrs Brandon’s? Yes. And you must go home and tell Selina. Go quickly, Dixen, before you are missed.”
In her haste she had not noticed the way she was taking. The streets were not familiar to her and as she hurried on, hardly daring to speak to her brother, or even to look at him, she became bewildered and anxious, and her courage failed a little.
“I am afraid Caroline will think I have been foolish. And they will be sure to look in her house, as they will not find him at home. Oh! if I only had a safe place in which to hide him for a few days!”
She thought of Mr St. Cyr’s house. But then she was not sure that their old friend had remained true to them. And besides, he was ill, and Father Jerome was often there, and the house was no place for Hubert.
“A safe place,” repeated she, and then there came into her mind the thought of Mistress Campbell and her garret, where there never entered a creature, but Eppie herself. Without a moment’s hesitation, she turned her steps in the direction of Mrs Glencairn’s house.
“Hubert dear,” said she coaxingly, “you will be very good, won’t you, and stay with Mistress Campbell till I know what I ought to do. No one will think of looking for you there.”
“But are we not going home? Why should we not go home?” demanded Hubert.
“It is quite impossible to-night,” said Fred firmly. “Father Jerome would have you back at school again this very night. You cannot go home.”
“Father Jerome? What has he to do with it? I don’t know what you mean, Fred.”
“Was it not he who took you there, when he should have taken you back to your former school again?”
No, Hubert thought not. He did not remember very well about it. But Father Jerome had nothing to do with their going to school. But Frederica had her doubts about it all the same, and hurried on.
“But we cannot go home, because mama is not there, nor papa. But Madame is there, and you may be sure she would not let you even stay one night, but send you back at once, and they would be sure to punish you for coming without leave.”
“It is you they ought to punish, Fred, I think,” said Hubert.
“Ah! wouldn’t they. If they could! And tell me about about Charlie. Where was he?”
“But Hubert knew very little about his brother. They very seldom saw each other. They were not in the same class.”
“And are they good to you? Are you glad to come away?”
It was not so, bad as it might be. Still, Hubert was very glad to get away. Some of the boys were not nice, and they had queer ways there. But of his life there he had no complaint to make. In the midst of his talk they reached Mrs Glencairn’s house. They went round to the door at the wing at which the pupils entered. They stumbled over a scrubbing-brush and a pail of water at the open door, but they saw no one; and went up till they reached the attic unseen.
“Where are we going?” said Hubert, holding fast his sister’s hand in the dimness, of the little passage. “Into the spider’s parlour, I think.”
“By no means,” said Frederica, as she knocked. “We are going to see Mistress Campbell; who used to be so good to Tessie and me when we were at school. And you must not look surprised at anything you may see. And, Hubert dear, you will be a good boy, won’t you?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Why should I not be good?” said Hubert impatiently.
“Eh, Missy! is this you?” exclaimed the old woman, holding up her hands in astonishment. “And this is your wee brother?—a bonny laddie, but—”
Mistress Campbell could not finish her sentence; for, excited and tired beyond her strength, Frederica burst into tears.
“My bairn! what is it?” said Eppie. “To think of my folly in speiring that I after all that has come to you and yours, since we saw you here. But, my dear, you have no cause to grieve—for your mama—”
Frederica put up her hand to stop her.
“No—I am glad for mama—but—I am frightened—and tired.”
“Sit down and rest you, my bairn,” said her old friend tenderly. “Go away yonder to your window, and I’ll make acquaintance with your brother here—a fine lad he is.”
Hubert, though a little startled at the sight of Frederica’s tears, had never taken his eyes from the small brown wrinkled face of the old woman, and he met her look with an undisguised curiosity and wonder that amused her.
“Your wee brother, did I say? No, this must be the elder of the two—and a fine well-grown lad he is,” said Mistress Campbell admiringly.
“No, Charlie is bigger than I am,” said Hubert gravely.
“Dear me! I ay thought Miss Frederica’s brothers were but wee boys; but you have had time to grow, it’s true, since I have been in the way of hearing about you. You’re near hand as big as Miss Frederica herself.”
This was not saying very much, but it won the good-will of Hubert, whether she meant it to do so or not. And some interesting confidences followed on his part, in the midst of which his sister found him, when she recovered herself.
“And you’ll bide to your tea with me,” said Mistress Campbell. “I’m sore failed since you were here, Miss Frederica, but I am not altogether helpless yet. So you’ll bide still a wee while.”
But Frederica was not sure that they ought to stay.
“First, I must tell you why we came,” said she.
She told the story hurriedly, and it was doubtful whether Mrs Campbell followed her closely through it all. She understood, however, that Miss Tessie had been “spirited away,” as she called it, and that from some dread mysterious fate Frederica had courageously rescued her little brother, and that in some way she was relied on for help.
“But I thought the days for such things were long past, and that they only whiles happen in books,” said he wondering. “But dear! dear! What is the like o’ me to ken about what is going on in the world? And one has but to look out, first at one window and then another, at the great buildings that are rising up on every hand, to be sure that the ‘scarlet woman’ has this for a favoured abiding-place. And I doubt she’s no’ much changed since the old days, though her hands are a wee tied. And you rescued your brother, did you? ’Deed you’re a brave lassie.”
But Hubert had no idea of being looked on as rescued.
“If I had known you cared about it, Fred, I could have run away any time—I could have done it quite easily.”
“I’m no’ just so sure o’ that,” said Mistress Campbell gravely. “If these long-coated gentry had a motive for keeping you, they wouldna have let you go, or they would have had you back again.”
“Yes, and no one must know where he is,” said Frederica anxiously. “I could think of no other safe place to bring him to. And, Hubert dear, if Mistress Campbell will have you, you will stay here quietly till I can see Caroline and Mr Brandon, or till papa comes home.”
“There has nothing happened to your papa, has there? They’re bold, these folk, or they’re sure o’ their ground,” said Mistress Campbell gravely.
“Dixen said that about papa. But we have had no more news. We had no letter last mail.”
“Oh well! No news is good news, they say; and it’s utter nonsense to think that anything can really happen to harm you in a Christian country like this.”
“And in the Queen’s dominions, as Dixen said,” echoed Frederica hopefully.
“And I’ll keep the laddie safe, though the whole Inquisition were after him. That’s no’ just the name they get here, I daresay; but I’ll keep the laddie, if he’ll bide.”
“You cannot go home, Hubert dear; for Madame Precoe is there, and Father Jerome; and though he is so smooth and pleasant, I do not trust him; and, indeed, I don’t know what to do. Will you stay, dear Hubert?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll stay, if you make a point of it. But there is no danger for me,” said Hubert loftily.
“Did you like staying at the school, my lad? Were they good to you?”
“At first I did not like it. Oh, yes, they were kind enough. They’re a rough lot, however, and I would not like to go back, since Fred objects to it.”
The door opened, and Frederica uttered a cry. It was only Miss Robina, however, not one of the servants, as she had feared. Of course there were more exclamations, and the story was told again, but the part dwelt on now was the taking away of Tessie from Mrs Glencairn’s, and sending her to the convent, without even telling her sisters.
“We did not know it till this morning, and I was angry and frightened. We could have done nothing, even if we had known. There is no one but Mr Brandon who has a right to say anything, and he does not like to interfere with Mr St. Cyr. But I think that has been done by Mr Jerome and Madame Precoe, and not Mr St. Cyr. I should be in despair if I thought Mr St. Cyr had turned against us.”
“Have they heard that Mr Vane is worse?” asked Miss Robina anxiously.
Frederica turned pale: “They all ask that. Dear Miss Robina, do you think he is really worse. What must we then do?”
“My darling, don’t be troubled. No harm can really come to you. It is not to be believed. Have you seen Mr St. Cyr? He is a man of high character. He will do nothing wrong—nothing unlawful, surely.”
“He has been ill. They thought him dying. I have not seen him for a long time. Oh! if papa would only come home! No, I am not going to cry. But I am tired, and—yes—I am afraid.”
“When had you your dinner?” asked Mistress Campbell gravely. Frederica laughed.
“I don’t know; I don’t think I had any.”
“And no wonder you are faint-hearted. Just you lie down and rest you, and you will be another creature when you get your tea.”
But Frederica was too excited and anxious to rest. She enjoyed her tea, however, and so did Hubert. He had evidently not been used to dainty fare of late, and he yielded to Mistress Campbell’s entreaties to eat, with entire willingness and enjoyment Fred found her strength and courage renewed when she rose to go. “I will come again soon, if I am not carried away too,” said she laughing.
“My dear, it is no laughing matter,” said Mistress Campbell gravely. “May the Lord preserve you all?”
“He will, Selina says. She is not afraid. Selina is better than I am,” said Fred humbly.
“But then it’s no’ our deserts we are to lippen to. You’ll be cared for, never fear. He’ll give His angels charge, and He’ll no’ leave it altogether to them either. He’ll raise some one up to take the orphan’s part.”
Miss Robina promised to come and see her soon, and bring her tidings of Hubert, who was already so sound asleep, that he could not be awakened to say good-bye; and somewhat reassured and comforted, Frederica went away.
But how lonely and friendless she felt, as she went down the familiar street! By some association, which it would not have been easy to trace, there came back to her the remembrance of their unexpected holiday at Easter. Oh, how long it seemed, since these two happy children had gone dancing down the street! How light-hearted they had been! how fearless of all possible evil!
At the corner of the street down which she and Tessie had run to avoid the chance of meeting Mrs Ascot, she paused a moment. Could it be possible that their old friend who had been so kind to them that day, should have turned against them? She remembered how he had walked on with them, and the promise he had made to help her if ever she were in trouble.
“And he did help me ever so many times. I cannot believe that he knows all that is making us unhappy and afraid. I will go and see him now.”
In a minute she was standing on the steps that went down to the wide door of the house. It was not open as she had found it once before, when she came to him with her troubles. But when it opened at the sound of the bell, she gave the servant no time to say as usual, that her master could see no one; but passing her softly and quickly, sprang upstairs like a bird. It was still quite light out of doors, but the passage was dark, and so was the room into which she went. There was a fire in the grate, however; and before she saw Mr St. Cyr, she saw his shadow on the wall, and paused a moment to get breath. Then as she heard a footstep at the door, she came forward. Mr St. Cyr must have been asleep, she thought, for at first he looked at her in a wondering way, as though he did not know her, and she therefore hastened to speak.
“Are you better, Cousin Cyprien?”
“It is not Theresa—is it?” said he, with little pauses between the words, as though he did not find it easy to utter them.
“Not Theresa, but Fred. Are you better, cousin?”
“Ah! my little cousin—who comes to me—in her trouble—but who does not come to me in mine.”
“I have been here often, but you were too ill to see me, they said always. Are you better now?”
“Yes—I am better, I think. Once they told me—I was dying—” He paused.
“And were you afraid, Cousin Cyprien?” said Frederica, looking with awe into his changed face.
“Was it fear that I felt? There was fear, and a thrill of something that was not fear. Now—I said—I shall know the mystery of death—and the beyond.”
“Cousin, mania was not afraid. Even at the last, when death was very near, she was not afraid, because—”
In her earnestness she had knelt down beside the old man; and now, as her voice failed, she laid her face down on his knee. His trembling right hand was laid on her head.
“So—she has gone! She has solved the mystery.”
“Did you not know, Cousin Cyprien? Did not Mr Jerome tell you? He feared to grieve you.”
“Doubtless—it was for that or for some other good reason. I am glad I did not die.”
“But mama was not afraid, after she knew how Jesus loved us and came to die for us.”
“Tell me of your mother, and the end.”
“She was not afraid,” repeated Frederica. “Miss Agnace was afraid for her, and Mr Jerome and Sister Magdalen came often, and told her many things she ought to do. But she was never afraid, after the old man told us how ‘the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin.’ It is in the Bible, you know, and God taught her, I think God and Selina. And it is for us all—the blood of Jesus—for those who think as Miss Agnace does, and you, and all of us. Selina will tell you. May I bring Selina, Mr St. Cyr?”
“Tell me about your mother,” said he.
Frederica told him about how afraid her mother had been, and how she longed to know the way to heaven. And then she told how she had brought the old man in from the storm, never thinking what wonderful things he was to tell them, and how after that her mother was at rest. She told him how she had grown weaker, so slowly that they could see no change in her from day to day, and how calm and peaceful she was through all the time.
“Not even the thought of leaving us alone, when we feared papa was dying, made her unhappy; for she said, ‘God will take care of my children, against all who would do them harm.’ And so He will,” added Frederica earnestly; and as she raised her eyes, they fell on the face of Mr Jerome, standing in the shadow of the door. She rose hastily.
“Must you go? Sit by me for a little while,” said her old friend.
The door closed softly, shutting out the priest, as she believed, and Frederica sat down at the old man’s feet again.
“Does the time seem long, Cousin Cyprien?” asked she.
“It seemed long in passing, but to look back on, it seems like a blank. I must get strong again. Is your father dead too?”
“Papa! Oh, no! He was better when we heard last, but it is a long time now. You have not heard that papa is worse?”
“I have heard nothing, and I can do nothing. Why have you come to-day? Is it because of some new unhappiness? Madame Ascot is with you, I hear. Are you unhappy, my child?”
Frederica paused a moment before she answered.
“Mama is gone, and papa, and sometimes we are afraid. But I did not come because of Madame. I thought that you had forgotten us, and I came to see. I am not afraid now that you are getting well.”
“Ah! we will trust so. And have you nothing to tell me?—no trouble to be helped through?”
“No,” said Frederica thoughtfully. “I will wait till you are quite well again, and then I will tell you all. And will you tell Babette that we may come upstairs—Selina and I? I may bring Selina, may I not?”
“By all means, and I will warn Babette, you may be sure. Must you go how?”
“It is growing dark, I think. Yes, I must go. So good night, Cousin Cyprien.”
“Are you alone? My child, it is not well for you to be alone in the street at this hour.”
“It was not dark when I came. It is only a little way. I am not afraid.”
“Well, be sure and come again. Good night, my child.”
“I will see Miss Vane safely home, I have something to say to her,” said a voice from the darkness. Frederica with great difficulty suppressed a cry as Mr Jerome stepped forward.
“Is it you, my brother? Ah, well, she need not be in haste, though it is growing dark. You will see her safely home.”
But Frederica bent hastily over Mr St. Cyr’s hand.
“Good night, Cousin Cyprien. I do not fear the dark,” said she; “but I do fear Mr Jerome,” added she, in an undertone, as she sprang out of the room and down the stairs. She sped along the street like one pursued by an enemy. But Mr Jerome did not follow her across the threshold. He lingered a moment, looking out after her, and then went up through the darkness to his brother’s room.
“And so Theresa St. Hubert is gone!” said Mr St. Cyr, as he entered the room, which was no longer dark.
“Yes,” said his brother; “she is gone, and so is her husband.”
“Dead! His daughter does not know.”
“No. Why tell her sooner than needful? He, at least, is no loss to his children.”
“And yet they loved him, and they ought to know.”
“They will be told when the right time comes.”
“There will be much to do. There are many documents relating to their affairs that must be looked over and arranged, and I have still so little strength.”
“My strength is yours in their cause;” said Mr Jerome.
“Brother,” said Mr St. Cyr, “why did you not tell me of poor Theresa’s death?”
“Did I not tell you? Did not Sister Agnace? You were too ill at that time to be told, I suppose. Or you have forgotten. Your memory fails you at times, I fear, my brother.”
“It may be,” said Mr St. Cyr, after a moment’s thought. “And yet I think I should not have forgotten this.”
“There is no time to be lost in the settlement of their affairs, you must see,” said Jerome.
“No, certainly.”
“There must be guardians appointed.”
“They are appointed.”
“In your illness, having to act for them, I examined such papers relating to their affairs as I had access to. I found none having reference to what was to follow the death of their mother. None entire, I mean. Was there not to be some change? some new choice? I found some torn morsels of paper, a cancelled instrument of some sort. It is quite as well. The court will be happier in the selection of guardians than that unhappy woman was.”
“There are guardians appointed!” repeated Mr St. Cyr.
“You have forgotten. Your illness has impaired your memory. There was to be a change of names. The former appointment was set aside. You yourself must have had some knowledge of it. You have forgotten.”
Mr St. Cyr looked at his brother with a strange emotion visible in his face.
“My brother, you are not glad of my weakness, are you? Have patience with me. I am weak.”
“That is easily seen. Yes, I will be gentle with you, but I must be faithful too: your weakness shall be helped and shielded by my strength.”
“Yes, but not to-night. I am tired to-night,” said Mr St. Cyr, leaning back wearily in his chair.
“You shall not be troubled. See, I have thought of the men whose names are written here, and at an early day I shall see the judges as to their legal appointment. And you shall not be troubled. If you are not satisfied with my suggestions, of course you are at liberty to make what change in the names you please.”
“But their mother, by my advice, appointed their guardians in the manner prescribed by Mr St. Hubert’s will; and nothing can supersede that appointment, you are aware.”
“If any trace of such an instrument is to be found,” said Mr Jerome.
“It is to be hoped it is to be found, or it may go badly with some of us,” said Mr St. Cyr gravely.
“As to that I cannot say. But the court, under your direction and mine, can do all that is necessary, without reference to documents of doubtful justice.”
“The appointment must stand as it is,” said Mr St. Cyr impatiently.
“It is time you were retiring, is it not? You seem tired. Shall I help you?”
“Thanks, I am not inclined to go yet.”
“Still I think you had better go. I shall speak to Babette, shall I not?”
There was no reply; and he left the room. Listening intently to his receding footsteps, Mr St. Cyr rose with difficulty, and holding by the furniture, crossed the room to the cabinet in which Frederica, on her first visit, had seen so many beautiful and curious things. From a hidden compartment in one of its sides, he drew forth several papers, and looked eagerly and attentively over them. He had only time to replace them and return to his seat, before his brother came in again.
“Your fire is bright in yon chamber. My brother, I entreat you to allow me to assist you thither, before I leave. I cannot divest myself of a feeling of responsibility with regard to that foolish young girl lingering in the street at this unseemly hour. I must see that she is safe at home. And I must hasten.”
“Thanks,” said Mr St. Cyr, rising meekly. “You are most kind, but pray do not stay. Babette can do all that is necessary for me. I fancy myself better to-night.”
“Better,” repeated his brother, as he went down the stairs. “I do not see it. For the present it is not necessary that you should be better. I can do your work for you, better than you can do it yourself. I have succeeded beyond hope—unless indeed, by some unimaginable chance, there should exist such an instrument as Cyprien asserts. Even then something might be done to put matters right, should I, and not Cyprien, guide them. We shall see.”