Chapter Sixteen.
The winter wore slowly away. The snow was fast disappearing from mountain and fields, and the streets were growing dirty and uneven, as, under the influence of the sun in the lengthening days of March, the ice began to yield, and an early spring was anticipated.
Except for the sunshine, which is usually bright, this is not a pleasant time of the year in the city of M—. It is a time for high winds, and the streets are rough when the frost is strong, and very wet and slippery when the thaw sets in; and people who are not obliged to go out, usually keep within doors for a week or two, till the season advances, and the streets are cleared. But when, as happens in most seasons, a heavy fall of snow comes to restore for a day the reign of winter, few fail to avail themselves of the opportunity to renew the winter’s chief enjoyment. Sleigh bells tinkle merrily, and the streets are full of gay equipages gliding smoothly and noiselessly to and fro.
Such a day came after a week of alternate rain and wind and sleet, and the sisters gladly found themselves speeding away from home and from the city streets. The fresh air, the sunshine, and the rapid motion had an exhilarating effect upon their spirits after the confinement of the last few days, and the burden of doubt and dread that had fallen on them grew lighter. The last English letter had been less discouraging than the former ones; Frederica was growing better and stronger, and they were more cheerful and lively than they had been for a long time. Neither Madame Precoe nor Miss Agnace was with them, and they amused themselves with making plans as to what they were to do when their father came home. For a long time it had been, “If papa comes home,” but to-day they said cheerfully, “When papa comes home.”
“Oh, how glad papa will be to see us all again!” said Frederica. “And, Lena and Tessie, I think he must have changed in some things.”
“He will be glad to get home, I am sure; but as to his being changed—I don’t know about that,” said Tessie.
“He has suffered so much,” said Frederica; “and God sends suffering to do people good. And besides, Cecilia’s letters make me think so.”
“And his little letters to us,” said Selina.
“Oh! if he were only safe home with us again!” said Frederica. “This has been such a long winter, and I am afraid to think of the summer without papa or any one.”
“Any one! We have only too many people;” and Tessie went on to say something not at all polite about Madame and Father Jerome, and they were in danger of taking up their burden again as they came back to the town.
“Where are we?” asked Selina as the street noises told her they were near home.
“We are in M— Street, near where the tall poplars are. They are building a new house, and the fence has fallen down, and there are a great many sleighs passing along,” said Frederica, as her manner was, using her eyes for her sister’s benefit; and then Tessie went on,—
“And here are school-boys, hundreds of them, I should think. Listen to the noise as they pass. A shabby lot they are. The Brothers should dress their boys in uniform—they would look much nicer. One would think all the old clothes in the town had been collected for their benefit.”
“Listen,” said Selina suddenly, “Some one is calling Fred.”
They listened, but amid the jingling of bells and the trampling of feet nothing was heard.
“It was Charlie’s voice. I am quite sure it was Charlie’s voice,” said Selina.
“But Lena dear, it is quite impossible,” said Tessie. “Charlie is far away.”
“It was Charlie’s voice. First he called ‘Fred,’ and then ‘Lena, Lena.’”
The horses’ heads were turned, and they drove slowly along by the line of boys. There was noise enough, laughing, talking, and exclaiming, but no voice called ‘Fred’ or ‘Lena.’ When they had passed, they turned again, and waited as the boys moved on, and both Fred and Tessie eagerly scanned each face as it came near. There were all sorts of faces, dark and fair, handsome and ugly, bright, eager, laughing faces, and faces stupid, dull, and unhappy. But the face of Charlie was not among them.
“It was Charlie’s voice,” said Selina, and nothing could move her from that.
They went home full of wonder and anxiety. They told Miss Agnace about the voice that Selina had heard, but Miss Agnace said nothing. They told Madame Precoe, when she came in, and she expressed more surprise than she needed to have expressed, seeing she had already heard all about the incident from Louis the coachman, as indeed, she generally heard of the incidents, and even of the conversations, that attended their drives, when she was not with them.
By-and-by Mr Jerome came in, and he was interested too, but laughed a little at Selina’s fancy.
“You were thinking of your brother, and imagined the voice,” said he.
Selina said nothing.
“Or rather, you heard many voices, and the names were a fancy, or why should not your sisters have heard them also? It is nothing to look so grave about, my child.”
“It was Charlie’s voice,” said Selina.
“And we were not thinking of our brothers, but looking and talking. And Selina hears much more readily than we do,” said Tessie.
Frederica said nothing. She was not strong yet, and she was in that nervous anxious state when nothing in the way of trouble seems impossible, and she looked pale and unhappy.
“Could we not go to the school and ask if Charlie was among the boys?” said Tessie.
“We could certainly do that,” said Father Jerome, “if it would set your minds at rest. Shall we go at once?”
But Madame said the girls needed rest, and they must wait till to-morrow, or at least till afternoon, and this was acquiesced in by them all.
Of course, when they went there, they found no Charlie. They found a great many boys, who scanned them with sharp, attentive eyes, as they passed down the long class-room. They heard them sing and do some of their lessons, and they saw them file down to the long dining-hall to their supper of dry bread and pease coffee. Then they went through other long rooms, and through the great dormitory, where the little grey beds stood close together in long rows, and where nothing else was seen. They went up many stairs, and looked down on numberless city roofs, and that was all.
Everybody was polite and attentive, and thanked them for coming, and asked them to come again. Then Madame Precoe and each of the girls put a piece of money in the charity box that hung on the wall near the door, and then they went away.
That was all. Of course it had been very foolish in them to expect to see their brother, Fred and Tessie said to one another as they walked down the stairs; but when they came home and saw Selina’s expectant face, they looked at one another in doubt again.
Madame sat with them that evening, and exerted herself to amuse them and to withdraw their thoughts from their brother, and from Selina’s foolish fancy about the voice she had heard. Miss Agnace was rarely with them when Madame was there, and when she went upstairs with them she would not linger to talk with them as she sometimes did.
“You are not to listen to them or speak about this foolish fancy, and they will forget it,” said Madame to her. “In a few days it will not matter what they know. But in the meantime they might complicate matters by discussing their affairs with other people. And remember, should any one call when I am out, the young ladies are engaged. And should it be impossible to deny any one, remember you must know all that may be said.”
Miss Agnace assented silently.
“And when you go as usual to Mr St. Cyr’s, remember you are to say nothing of this foolish fancy of Miss Selina’s. He could do nothing, even if he understood; and they will soon be out of his hands, and the sooner the better for all concerned. You understand what I wish, do you not?”
Again Miss Agnace assented in silence. She was by no means sure how all this would seem to her, when she should have time to think it over, but there was nothing to be said. She was not bound to obey blindly Madame Precoe’s commands, except as they expressed the will of Father Jerome also; and in the single moment in which she permitted herself to question, a great many unhappy thoughts rushed into her mind. And they would not be put away, even when it became clear to her that for the plans with regard to the future of these children, and all that they involved, Father Jerome was responsible. Madame Precoe was but an instrument in his hands, as she herself was. Father Jerome must not be accused of doing wrong—at least, the end he had in view was right, and that ought to be enough.
Ought it to be enough? Poor Sister Agnace had never been in the habit of deciding between right and wrong for herself, and she was sadly puzzled now. It was such a pity, she thought, that it was necessary to deceive these children for their good. There would be strong resistance on their part, she began to fear, to the power that was shaping their fate.
“And they will suffer. Oh! how they will suffer?” said the poor anxious creature to herself. “But it is for their souls’ sake, and their suffering will only be for this world; and surely, Mary and the saints will soften their trouble, poor darlings! Father Jerome must, of course, be right. But it hurts me to deceive them, because they love me a little, and trust me.”
She went that night to pay her usual monthly visit to Mr St. Cyr. She answered his questions. She told him no lie, but she kept silence, as Madame had bidden her, about all that could have awakened the anxiety of their friend and guardian on their account. Unintentionally she made him aware that Madame Precoe was living with them; but he said nothing.
He thanked Miss Agnace for her care of the girls and their mother, and for her love and faithfulness to them, and expressed a hope that as long as they should need her, she might be permitted to remain with them. Poor Miss Agnace! She went into a church on her way home, and knelt for a long hour or two in the cold and darkness, but she carried still her burden of doubt and care when she went away.
A few more weeks passed away. Frederica said nothing now about going to her father, for they were not without hope that when the spring came he might return home. He longed very much to come, they knew, and they permitted themselves to hope, almost to believe, that they would see him again, and waited for his coning with what patience they could command.
Tessie went to school again after the Easter holidays, and they missed her sadly. But they both strove conscientiously, not only to be patient, but to be happy, in the great lonely house that had so changed to them. But waiting is weary work to young and eager hearts, and time passed slowly.
The day for Tessie’s first visit came, and they amused themselves making preparations for her entertainment. But hour after hour passed, and she did not appear. Instead of Tessie, came Madame with her work-basket in her hand, and with the evident intention of remaining. It was not a pleasant prospect, and it is to be feared they were not quite able to hide their discomfort under it.
“Frederica,” said Madame, “pray do not be so restless—so unsettled. You had much better take your work, and be content to sit still.” But Frederica could settle to nothing till Tessie came.
“Expect Tessie? Nay, you need not do that Tessie is not coming home.”
“Excuse me, Madame, but it was certainly to-day that we agreed on for her visit, and Miss Glencairn will be sure to allow her.”
“But unfortunately it is not a question of Miss Glencairn’s kindness. It has long been evident that Miss Tessie has got beyond Miss Glencairn and her little attempts at education; and she has been sent elsewhere—to the ladies of the Sacred Heart, where you all should have been sent long ago. I have no doubt she will be quite happy there. She will, at all events, be judiciously dealt with.”
Astonishment kept the sisters silent, and Madame went on—
“A most necessary and important step, I consider it. It is only to be regretted that so much time has been lost.”
Frederica so trembled with indignation, that she could not speak. Selina made a movement toward her, and holding her hand firmly, said,—
“Remember, Fred, nothing can really harm Tessie, or any of us. And, Madame, you will excuse us from discussing this matter with you. It is painful to us, and it cannot concern you.”
“Except as I approve of it entirely. You do me injustice. I take the greatest possible interest in this matter, and in you.”
“And who took the responsibility to advise such a step?” asked Frederica. “Does Mr St. Cyr know it? What do you suppose papa will say?”
“I advised it, and Mr Jerome St. Cyr saw the propriety of it. Mr St. Cyr is in no state of health to say anything about such a matter. As for Mr Vane—” added Madame, and paused, with a look that sent a chill to the girls’ hearts. There had no letter come to them by the last mail.
“What of papa?” said Selina, “Have you heard anything that we do not know?”
“As to this affair of Tessie? No, I have heard nothing. Should he ever return, he will doubtless recall her, unless she should wish to remain. I dare say she is quite happy there by this time.”
“Fred, love, do not let us vex ourselves. Tessie is at least quite safe there. But, Madame, why was it thought necessary to conceal her going there from us? Why did you deceive us?”
“Nay, you forget—I have nothing to do in this affair. I suppose Father Jerome feared that you might make yourselves unhappy. It was for your sakes that his intentions were not explained to you. Now that your sister is there, you must acknowledge that the convent is quite the best place for her. At all events, no change will be made now.”
Frederica was sick at heart. If she were to utter the angry words that rose to her lips, she knew it would do no good. She knew not what to do.
“Fortunately, here comes Father Jerome; you may discuss the matter with him, and I will leave you;” and Madame rose to leave the room.
“At this moment it would not be agreeable to us,” said Selina. “He has deceived us, and we decline to see him just now.”
“What right has he to intermeddle in our affairs?” burst in Frederica; “a man whom neither our father nor mother ever trusted.”
Madame laughed.
“It is as well to decline his visit at this moment. Later he will, I think, make you understand his right to meddle in your affairs, and his power to do so,” said Madame, as she left the room.
“Selina, what shall we do? Selina, I am beginning to be afraid.”
“But then you know, dear, nothing can really harm us. You read it yesterday—‘Who is he that can harm you, if ye be followers of that which is good?’”
“Oh! I don’t remember, and that may not mean us. Selina, I am afraid.”
“But, Fred, love, it must mean us, I think. We must not let the promise go, as though God would change. Read it, dear—to please me;” and she put the Bible into her sister’s hand. “And in another place it is said, ‘All things shall work together for good to them that love God.’ We love Him, Fred. He has been very good to us.”
Frederica took the Bible and read,—
“‘For the eyes of the Lord are over the righteous, and His ears are open unto their prayers. But the face of the Lord is against them that do evil.
“‘And who is he that will harm you, if ye be followers of that which is good?’”
Selina’s face grew bright as she listened.
“Fred, love, why should we be afraid? It is wrong to be afraid.”
“Well,” said Frederica, with a long breath, “I will not be afraid. I think I am more angry than afraid.”
“But anger will not help us. Read what you read yesterday,” said Selina.
Frederica read on to the end of the chapter, and then turned back to the one before it, the second of First Peter. They could not have explained all those beautiful and wonderful words—nay, they knew that most of them they understood very imperfectly. But they could take comfort from them, lingering over a verse here and there, and speaking to one another words which might not have been very wise, but which were always reverent and trustful.
“It is ‘as new-born babes’ that He speaks to us. And babes are neither wise nor strong. But He cares for them all the same, and surely we ‘have tasted that the Lord is gracious,’” said Selina.
And so she went on to the end. It quieted them, and they went out to the garden to get the good of the sunshine, not less cheerfully than usual. The faces that the priest caught sight of as they passed were brighter than he had seen them for a good while.
“See, they have forgotten their troubles already,” said he, smiling. “You are mistaken in thinking they will resist. Sister Agnace is mistaken in thinking they will suffer. They will yield to circumstances and a strong will. From whom could they have inherited strength? Neither from father nor mother.”
“Frederica is like the little Jewess her grandmother. She may have inherited her strength,” said Madame. “I wish you could have seen her as I saw her a little while ago.”
“Ah, well! She has forgotten her anger already. See the little butterfly flitting about in the garden. There is nothing to fear from her.”
“I will send Sister Agnace to keep an eye on your butterfly. It is not necessary that they should tell their affairs to old Dixen who is there.”
She returned immediately.
“Of what are you then afraid, if not of the ‘little Jewess’?” asked she.
“There is nothing to fear. Everything is prospering beyond my hopes.”
“And your brother?”
“He is better. But I do not think he will seriously object to the plans I have in view for these children. Indeed, I have no plans for them. That will be for those who are to be appointed as their guardians. I hope to name these guardians. Cyprien may not agree with me, but still I think it can be arranged to suit us both.”
“And are you sure that their mother and your brother did not appoint them, even after you found the torn paper on your brother’s table?”
“It is impossible. If indeed there were any guardians legally appointed, that might make the work I have set myself more difficult. Other means would have to be used.”
“Ah, well! I doubt if ever you can make a nun of ‘the little Jewess,’” said Madame.
“Nothing is farther from my wish than to do that. Her sister shall be a nun and a saint, and if by any miracle of science and skill her blindness may be cured, it shall be so done, that even by that the Church shall receive honour, and her power be extended and strengthened. Your ‘little Jewess,’ your ‘butterfly,’ shall be allowed to shine in society, and to take her fill of the pleasure she tasted last year. A few years with the good sisters first will do much for her. When she is properly submissive to those who have a right to direct her, she shall have her own way. I am not afraid.”
“And her brothers: what are they to be?”
“After ten, or even seven years with the good fathers, they shall choose for themselves.”
“And if Mr Vane should return? It is not impossible.”
“It is impossible. Mr Vane is dead.”
“Dead!” repeated Madame. Even she was shocked at the tidings, or the suddenness of the announcement.
“I have known it for a week. Cyprien does not know it yet, but all must know it soon.”
“And have you come to tell these girls?”
“No. They will probably have letters to-night,—the steamer has arrived, I see,—and then no time must be lost. They must not have a chance to talk over their affairs with all the world, who will come to condole with them.”
“And will you not see them?”
“You forget. They decline to see me,” said the priest laughing. “I hope to find them in better humour another time.”
Madame did not laugh.
“It is not impossible that all your plans for them may be frustrated after all,” said she.
“For the moment, it is not impossible. But I shall never, while I live, give up the hope of making them and their wealth of use to the Church, and when I die others will take up the work. There is nothing impossible. They, or their children, or their children’s children—and their wealth must be ours.”
“There is only God Himself stronger than you and the Church, and these children believe Him to be on their side.”
“They are but children,” said the priest, but he frowned darkly at her words, as he turned to go away.
Madame sat still, looking after him in silence, Mr Jerome’s tidings had moved her more than she would have thought possible. She sat lost in painful thoughts till Miss Agnace came in. She felt that she could not yet meet the questioning eyes of these orphan girls.
“I am going out,” said she, rising hastily. “If any one calls, the young ladies are not to be seen.”
She went out immediately and Miss Agnace did not follow her to say to her what she had come to say.
“It will keep. Perhaps she need not be told,” said she to herself.
It seemed that Miss Agnace had not been needed in the garden, or rather the need for her was past, before she had been sent out. She met the girls returning to the house. They were very quiet but there was some restrained excitement in their manners, as she remembered afterwards. They went to their own room, where she had supposed they both remained till she went to tell them that luncheon was served. But only Selina was there. Frederica had gone to see their sister Caroline, she told Miss Agnace.
“But my dear, should she not have asked permission, or at least have said that she was going, or have taken the carriage. It is not well that a young lady should go out alone, and she is not strong.”
“Of whom should she ask permission?” said Selina coldly.
And so Miss Agnace had gone to let Madame know, as Madame expected her to let her know everything that went on in the house. But she had not waited to hear, and Frederica had been allowed to have her own way.